


One Part Anscombe, Three Parts Diogenes

by Vashoth



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Adult Peter Parker, Both., Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gwen Stacey and Norman Osborn are both dead from Green Goblin events prior to the fic, Happy Ending, I'll update tags as things progress, I'm talking about some Miraculous Ladybug style identity porn guys so strap in, Identity Porn, M/M, Mark the Manager - Freeform, Meet-Cute, Meet-Ugly, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Peter/MJ, Peter is 32, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Standard Wade self injury, Think along the lines of Peter B. or comic Peter, Undercover!Wade has a day job as a telemarketer, Wade cold calls Peter but they're both unaware of each other's superhero identity, Wade is 34
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 57,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vashoth/pseuds/Vashoth
Summary: It started like any good love story does: with a begrudging trip to New Jersey, a counter-top HAM-1750 toaster oven, and a shitty H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech flip phone.ORThat one where Wade gets a gig as a telemarketer, Peter works a million different equally shitty jobs, and Spider-Man finds himself caught in something truly sinister with a foe that might just become a friend.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 87
Kudos: 282





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! This is my first ever content for spideypool. Buckle in, because I'm incapable of small plotlines.
> 
> FYI know that the rating will almost certainly change (on account of gore/violence/horror elements, but also it's cloudy with a decent chance of smut), plus I'll add tags as the plot reveals more and more. However, the archive trigger warnings will not change and I will always put more detailed trigger warnings in the end-notes of each chapter.

It was an objective fact that 2:33 a.m. was the best time in the whole wide world. It was made of fairy dust, unicorn jizz, and everything else magical. That's a scientific _fact_.

When reruns of the best kind started playing, when everyone in his building was too far into their REM cycles to notice (or complain about) him clomping all over his apartment, _and_ he could still sneak in a delivery order to that taco joint down the street because the timer that closed their site to online orders was three minutes slow. Illicit tacos, neighbors that minded their own _goddamn_ business, and quality time with his main squeeze: Bea Arthur. It didn’t get better than that.

As if that wasn’t reason enough, there was also the news. 2:33 a.m. news. 

Now Wade (Mr. Wilson, if ya nasty) was all about the finer things in life and any such connoisseur knew that the best time to be a local live reporter wasn’t during the ass-crack of dawn. The sweet spot was closer to the sphincter of night. Local station small-time reporters on the air anytime past 2:33 a.m. made shit up as they went along and didn’t bother pretending otherwise. See, no one wanted to shell out cash to pay for a live-scripter or to pay to school these young hooligans with microphones in how to avoid PR disasters. Not for the 2:33 a.m. shift. 

_That_ was what made it news worth watching. The kind of news where his favorite reporter regularly sported a mustard stain that got picked up as part of the green screen. Unhinged news. Absolutely _feral_ news.

Not that Wade didn’t do his part as a responsible citizen! He called in regularly to give good ol’ Colonel Mustard a heads up that his cheap new contacts made him look like he was possessed in front of the green screen, which Wade wholeheartedly supported. He also called in horoscope predictions, restaurant reviews, and the occasional story tip off. Any criminal worth the cost of their boots knew that all crime worth looking into happened on or after 2:33 a.m. 

Wade’s TV sat directly on the floor of his apartment. The harsh blue light from it wavered as Colonel Mustard sashayed across the screen with a green-screen-green handkerchief stuffed into his sport-jacket pocket that had to be purposeful at this point. Wade grinned. _Mad respect._

“There doesn’t seem to be anything missing,” Colonel Mustard said, tone bland.

The non-green-screen scene (for once) behind the Colonel showed a grungy parking lot with a handful of cop cars in front of some relic from the industrial revolution. The warehouse in question also looked like it was somehow stained with questionable fluids even though it was probably just rust. Probably. And that was without a close up. 

Colonel leaned towards the camera like he was letting the viewers in on a secret. Wade leaned forward to listen as the reporter spoke. “Or nothing that the pigs—ah, sorry, _police_ are willing to report missing officially.”

“Fuck yes,” Wade raised a fist in solidarity before returning to the work on his dingy laptop. “Get’em, Colonel.” 

NYPD’s finest sticks in the mud didn’t look nearly as enthused to be on the 2:33 a.m. shift as the Colonel did. They picked at their surroundings like ants lazily excavating the remaining crumbs of a Sunday picnic that had taken place over a week ago. No immediate threat of being squashed, no pressure to act fast. Nothing but time and crumbs, baby. 

Wade rolled his neck and scowled down at his cracked laptop screen, trying to focus on the words hidden behind the jagged lines. A still blank application that sat rudely on it, insisting that he divulge his workplace history. The scroll down menus didn’t seem to think ‘killing people for money’ was a valid occupation, so he went with ‘private security’ instead. He briefly entertained the idea of pretending to have been a cop, but that was probably too easy to check and disprove. Private security was likely enough of a reach without trying to pass off ‘Hot Cop Stripper-gram Used As a Cover to Kill People for Money’ as police work. _Probably_. 

He replicated the private security module three times, then copied and pasted the general customer support hotline for Verizon ISP in the box demanding his manager’s contact number. That should discourage them. 

And with the movie-magic pure can’t-give-a-fuck essence bestowed upon Wade by the blessed hour of 2:33 a.m. (2:46 a.m. now, technically), he didn’t even bother to try and make his blatant lies believable when he got to the background check page. 

_Military service?_ None. (Hah.)

 _Any past misdemeanors?_ None. (Ha _hah_.) 

_Any past felonies?_ None. (Ha _hahah!_ )

_Résumé attachment?_

Right there next to the offending question was a little upload file button. The little paperclip icon that coldly replaced Clippy. Wade groaned and dragged his hands down his face. 

“What, the forty page questionnaire wasn’t enough?” He waved a gloved hand at the tabs, glowering through his mask. “I don’t put out a CV until at least the second date. I’m a lady.” 

He swapped tabs (Ctrl+Shift+Tab) to the original job posting, scrunching up his nose before highlighting the lot of it (Ctrl+A) and pasting (Ctrl+V) it directly into a blank document. Badda-bing, badda-boom, and the text had been shifted to 1pt font, white, and crammed into the footer. He saved it as a PDF, then opened up a PDF Editor. There, he plonked down the template suggested resume format, and meticulously replaced the auto-generated life of John Smith (“Thanks for your service, John.”) with the entirely honest and unique life experiences of Wilson Reynolds (Ctrl+H).

He clicked submit and nearly kicked the duct taped legs of the coffee table when an additional field appeared. Evidence of work-visa. Well, shit. 

Wade scrolled back through the tabs to where he had proudly indicated that Mr. Wilson Reynolds was as Canadian as maple syrup drizzled from a hockey stick directly onto Celine Dion’s ass. His fingers stilled, going rigid as death as he pulled up the drop-down menu.

“It’s for the cover!” He pleaded with himself. “I would never abandon my homeland.” 

After a pause.

“Outside of that time with the marines, but that was different and you know it,” Wade argued. His hand wasn’t buying it. He sighed. “Look, do you want to be responsible for typing up a forged visa? There’s enough fine print in those bastards to drown a toddler.” 

His hand flexed, tapping over the mouse pad thoughtfully. 

“I’m not getting Weasel involved. Too dangerous. He’d spill everything in a matter of seconds if he was caught.” Wade puffed out his chest challengingly. His fingers waggled, mocking him. He scowled. “No! Solo mission. One man show. Uno.” 

Wrong answer, apparently. His hand promptly seized up in cramps from the constant waggling and Wade yelped, rushing to rub out (nice) the tension from his palm, frantically stretching. 

“If you don’t quit your shit,” Wade growled, “I don’t know how the flying drilldo-fuck you expect to pull this shit off. This is Weapon _motherfucking_ X, do you remember that? This isn’t some nice little traipse around with the X-men, this isn’t just a fun interlude; this is the big time. This is Broadway, sweetheart. The climax of the character arc our movies are building to. Catharsis then denouement. Man versus Nature can suck my moldy fruit leather cock; this is Deadpool versus _The Legacy of Francis_.”

Somewhere in the litany of comparisons, he won control over his hand again. There it was, all floppy and pliable and reacting like he wanted it to as if there was never any problem in the first place. Grade-A rat bastard. 

He clicked the menu and scrolled down until he could highlight ‘US Citizen.’ With only the tiniest threatening twinge of muscle spasm, he chose the stupid option and tried to ignore the orchestral swell of _O Canada_ screeching at him from the back of his head. He clicked through the rest of the application just as quickly, eyes scanned over each page to make sure it looked halfway passable until there was one button left to click. 

_Submit_. 

Ominous. Wade clicked it with a whistle on his lips. 

“—arrested a young man by the name of Jeffrey French,” Colonel Mustard’s voice broke through the reverie and Wade looked up to the TV. 

A ragged looking guy with white-people-dreadlocks blinked confusedly in the bright camera crew lights shining into his face as the police hand on his arm dragged him patiently towards the cop car. He walked with the awkward stumble of someone with his hands cuffed behind their back. Wade hummed sympathetically. 

“Channel 18 news, my name is Eddie Brock, and our crew caught audio of you declaring your innocence just moments ago.” The camera crew jostled as they tried to keep up with Colonel Mustard (Eddie?) and Dreadlocks Jeff. “So are we understanding correctly that you claim to have no memory of the events the police have caught on camera?” 

“What? I— I don’t know what’s going on!” Dreadlocks Jeff squint-grimaced into the camera.

Colonel Mustard shoved a ratty looking H.A.M.M.E.R. phone in his face. “Do you recognize yourself in this footage?” 

That caught the police officer’s attention. Wade leaned forward, eyes going wide. _Rookie mistake, Colonel._

“How did you get a hold of that footage?” The officer paused in his hauling of Dreadlocks Jeff to shove his mustachioed face right into Colonel Mustard’s. 

Undeterred, Colonel Mustard and his camera crew pivoted expertly so that he could still shove the phone screen into Dreadlock Jeff’s face. Dreadlock Jeff’s eyes managed to focus on it for long enough that something he saw inspired him to start resisting his arrest. Wade suddenly desperately wished for popcorn. 

“That’s… That’s me on that tape, did you doctor footage of me, man?” Dreadlock Jeff demanded of the officer, who was still trying to grab the phone. Dreadlock Jeff tried to tug his arm free of the officer’s grip and oh, bad call, because— “H-Hey! Are you planting evidence, man? I didn’t do that shit! I don’t know who that creepy look-alike is buAAARGH.” 

Yep. Taser. 

Wade saluted the fallen soldier solemnly as Colonel Mustard and his crew made a break for it from the scene. Sirens garbled out chopped up bursts of noise as a couple officers gave half-assed pursuit, but the good Colonel clutched the phone tightly to his cheap button up and grinned through the sweat dotting his face. 

“This is Channel 18 on-the-ground news, signing out from the H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech Robbery. My name is—” 

“Wade _fucking_ Wilson.” 

Wade jumped about a foot in the air and had his gun trained on his laptop before he fully registered Weasel’s unimpressed face staring back at him. 

He squinted at the screen then lowered the gun, but just barely. “Oh hey, Weas! Long time no chat! So nice of you to hack into my laptop and pull up—is that Skype? Are you using Skype? Quick, what year is it?” 

“It’s 2020, the year of our lord, and you still have a 2008 Thinkpad. What is wrong with you, Wade?” Weasel drawled. There were faint clicking sounds on his side of the call and Wade settled for shooting the TV instead of looking for the remote. Weasel looked unfazed. “I wouldn’t even call it hacking. I politely asked permission for entry, and your Thinkpad threw its ankles behind its head. If your laptop was a hooker, it’d be the hooker all the others use as a free sample of service cuz everyone and their mom has given it a taste. What the honey roasted fuck, Wade? Do you even have a firewall? Virus protector? Anything? Or are you trying to figure out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop where the tootsie pop is your core operating system and the licks are malware—” 

Wade pulled the safety off the gun again and aimed it at his laptop. Sometimes sacrifice was necessary. 

“Wait, wait, hold on, okay! Jesus. Fine. Whatever. I won’t even comment on the amount of porn—”

“Weasel,” Wade growled low in warning. “I did not contact you. I went out of my way not to contact you. This is a solo mission. My best-man monologue. My unappreciated street busking performance that turns me into a young starlet, sleeping with her agent for roles.”

He politely ignored Weasel’s snort by tapping his thumb meaningfully on the safety of his gun.

“There was no RSVP because _there was no invitation_. So what the fuck are you doing on my computer screen?” Wade waggled the gun in a way he hoped was threatening. He swore it was like Weasel didn’t even care if Wade shot the call to it’s inevitable end. This sort of thing was usually more effective in person. Something got lost in translation with digital communication these days. “Explain. _Now_.” 

Weasel stopped typing and gave him a flat look. “I have a lot of standing program routines that alert me to uh… Certain activity, with certain names, IP addresses in certain areas…” 

“You’re _stalking_ my online presence?” Wade gasped in horror. “You low-brow, taint-sucking brute. Is nothing on the internet anonymous these days? Anyways, if that’s all, then—”

He raised his gun again, and Weasel interrupted. “—and absolutely anything to do with Weapon X.” 

Wade stilled. The amount of willpower it took not to squeeze the trigger was staggering. Olympian. Wade deserved a medal. 

“For obvious reasons,” Weasel continued. “Since, y’know. They fucked up my buddy, so I have a vested interest in fucking them up right back.”

“Awww,” Wade cooed, not convinced. 

“And my number one money-maker,” Weasel winced as he admitted. 

“There it is.” Wade finally lowered the gun, tucking it into its proper holster. 

Weasel rolled his eyes. “Stuff can be two things, Wade. I’m a complex character, not some side floozy with a one-dimensional supporting role.”   
  
“And you’re the second ugliest floozy I’ve ever seen,” Wade assured him. “Thank god your personality is shit, too.” 

He sat back down on the couch, careful to avoid one of the rusty springs sticking through the cushions. He grumbled into his palms, resting the weight of his skull against his hands as the words became less and less recognizable. 

“What?” Weasel’s face got bigger on the screen. “Are you talking to me or yourself?” 

“Both!” Wade snapped, sitting up enough to glare. “You can’t be with me on this mission, Weasel. It’s too risky. And not because I give a shit what happens to your pasty ass—” 

“Hey now, self-tanner is expensive and I have low standards.”

“—but because if you get caught and blow my cover, I’m fucked. Do you get that? Fucked.” Wade gestures wildly at the laptop. “I’ve spent too long trying to track Weapon X down only for you to give them a nice snot-filled sobbing recital of my exact whereabouts and intentions.” 

It was Weasel’s turn to groan. “That was one time. Besides, if I found your job application and connected it to Weapon X in less than twelve minutes after I got the ping, do you seriously think you’ll have them fooled?” 

Wade sputtered indignantly. “It was a good fake application!”

“American, Wade? Really?” 

Wade reached forward to slam the laptop shut and not caring if he cracked the screen any more than it already was, when a file cropped up in the little Skype chat. He hesitated, then clicked to open it. 

“I made some adjustments.” 

Sure enough, Weasel had changed the resume to something that actually looked real. Wilson _Johnson_ apparently had full mastery of the MS Office suite, history in retail, and a letter of recommendation from an old manager that mentioned his excellent customer service voice. Wade bet it was just on the right side of rough, just enough to be charming. He scrolled to the next page and… There it was. Weasel’s gift. 

A forged visa allowing Mr. Wilson Johnson to work in the US for the next five years despite being _Canadian_. 

Wade couldn’t help sounding a little choked up. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

“Gross,” was Weasel’s nonchalant reply, but he looked like he was fighting off a smile. Or a cold. Probably both. “I have an interest in keeping you safe. I have an interest in fucking up Weapon X. I demonstrated my interests through action. You now have a job interview lined up at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow—er. This morning. That makes me helpful, right?” 

Wade’s eyes narrowed. “I _guess_.” 

“So glad you agree,” Weasel’s yellowed teeth looked gross even through the lovely blurring effect of a cheap webcam. “Then this one man show just turned into a two man show.” 

Wade groaned and flopped back on his couch. He tried his best not to grin, but it didn’t really matter. 

* * *

Five stories above ground, resting on his wrist right next to the web shooter’s release mechanism was a shiny new metal tube. It hooked into the flat storage spool where Spider-Man’s synthesized webs were wound up tight. At the opening a tic-tac sized metal ballistics ball was carefully mounted onto the end of the sticky material. He rolled it gently to loosen it, to make sure that the webbing flowed out with it. Then, Spider-Man stood up from where he was crouched on the side of the building top and adjusted his weight until he was directly parallel to the ground. He pressed his thumb against the release and watched as the little metal ball weighted the released webbing down, down towards the pavement. 

It would’ve been a flat out lie to say he wasn’t excited to test out his newest toy. He made no attempt to stop the grin spreading underneath his mask as he took in the way metal bit anchored down the loose sticky strands that followed it. Instead of swaying, the silk twisted like an old phone cable, with the wind and winding the threads tighter and tighter til the tension snapped it back in the opposite direction. Spider-Man’s lenses were narrowed, sight focused on the little metal bit as he guided the piece from side to side gently, careful not to get within sticking range of the glass windows.

It was strange, to not be immediately bombarded by the lights and sounds of his city. Instead, the horizon stretched out long and dark dusty blue across the sky. Some mix of smog, light pollution, and the not quite blue of dawn meant the sky melted into the shaped shrubbery surrounding the building. The haze in the air stole the shine from the otherwise spotless windows that started down in the dirt and shot into the middle of the uninterrupted sky where Spider-Man perched on the tip of the building. Rough concrete finishing crunched and shifted like it was threatening to become gravel under the grip of his boots. Without traffic, without music and lights, without the life of New York City, it felt like he was crushed under the weight of silence. 

His lenses narrowed again and he focused on the metal barb. With his free hand, he tapped at his wrist, ears pricked up just enough to catch the hiss of internal mechanisms even from five stories above. Little needle prongs thrust out from the sides of the barb and held firm, in the shape of a flying saucer. The magnifying effect of the narrowed lenses was just strong enough that he could drag the smooth round underside of the metal bit across the pavement the half foot or so until the prongs caught on the underside of the first window panel. The metal fire escapes to the side shielded the silk threads from the worst of the wind so all that was left was to slowly start reeling in the slack. 

The tiny reel on his wrist _click-locked-click-locked_ as he brushed his thumb over it again and again. He watched, patient, lining up the threads with the crease alongside the levels of windows that opened up onto the fire escape. The latches were internal, but the silk polymer was strong enough to effectively act as a seal, so long as he aligned everything just right. If he did, then no one was using these windows to get in or out any time soon. (Or at least until the webs disintegrated after twenty-four hours.)

Spider-Man’s thumb slowed in reeling for the last couple bits of slack as he felt the weight of the silk latching on to the glass and metal. Then he twitched again, pressing the reel back into the flat of his web-shooter and watched as a tiny spark of electricity ran down the thread. The silk exploded like condensed memory foam being released from vacuum sealed shrink wrap. It filled out nicely, the alignment just perfect to make the air-tight seal he had hoped for. Nothing dramatic enough to catch the eye—it really just looked like a bad caulking job—but it was more than enough to make him smile beneath the mask. 

It was official—the new toy was a success! And it was _so_ much better than webbing each window exit shut individually. 

He stood, stretched his arms up over his head and leaned up onto his tip toes, not minding the rush that came with his lenses widening to show him a clear view of the distance between him and the ground he regularly defied. There weren’t many buildings nearby, none high enough to reliably latch on to if he slipped. None close enough to shoot webs at, either. His heart tapped against his ribcage, and he curled his toes in his boots as if to grip the building harder, standing parallel to the earth for just a little longer. A quiet kind of threat, alien to the unabashed screaming danger of his city. 

He let out his breath, then backed up to the top of the building proper. The siren call of gravity released his muscles and he rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. The sweltering late summer heat made his suit feel like it was made of leather instead of a self-designed spandex polymer. “Breathable” didn’t mean much when there wasn’t so much as a whisper of motion in the air around him. 

He reached behind his head, running his fingertips over the smooth material until deft touch found the sewn in latch and released the fabric bound tightly over his neck. The effect was instant and Peter just about swooned with relief. His eyes landed on an old air heating unit, shut down for the season. He swaggered a little more than was entirely necessary as he walked across the empty rooftop to it, spun on the tip of one boot, and fell with his back on the mostly flat operating panel. The ker-thunk of his weight hitting the panel was the most noise he’d caused in about ten hours and it was weirdly cathartic to hear. He kicked his feet up on the gas meter just to hear it creak under pressure. 

Maybe it was the heat, the rowdy kids going back to school, or the unspoken promise of every single subway line breaking down just about systematically as the city continuously postponed maintenance, but late summer was an oddly peaceful time in the Big Apple. There were a couple of the routine muggings he stopped before he’d started the trek out to where he sat now, sure, but even the muggers didn’t really put their heart into it. He didn’t even have to web up one of them. The guy just left of his own accord. 

Lack of crime was a good thing. Peter knew that. People were safer, happier even. Things were working like they were meant to and the lazy satisfaction of a summer vacation well spent oozed from the youth of the city to the rest of it until it was claimed as a community. Even Peter felt it, way up high, and way out here in… _New Jersey._

He scowled. He couldn’t help it. The city was poetry in motion at this time of year, when it was just tipping face first into fall. Sure the streets had _that smell_ to them, but people were happy. And here he was, sitting atop one of H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech’s more remote warehouses. Peter pulled his knees up to his chest and tried very hard not to sulk. 

He wiggled a little, adjusting the way his back hit the shut off heating unit. His view was fantastic, at least. Angled just enough to see both the entrance and the side with the loading dock, with a decent view of the alleyways running around the building too. He webbed closed the entrances and exits to the sides he couldn’t fit in his field of vision, so all in all, he was nailing this stake out. He rarely had the time to be so careful. Spider-Man’s gallery of rogues weren’t fond of giving him a heads up for preparations. Hell, as far as he knew, there might not even be any rogues to catch that night. But if there were, by god, Spider-Man was so prepared that they weren’t even going to know what hit them. 

Peter hated it. Cities were supposed to be loud. Patrols were supposed to make his heart pound in his ears. He wasn’t supposed to be _bored_. 

He sighed loudly, sitting up to adjust again. One of the plastic switches was digging into his side. He scratched at his suit, plucking at the fabric as if it was at fault. His burner phone shifted along with it, taking his attention blessedly away from the unbelievably vacant warehouse. He pulled the little flip phone out, marveling at the actual slide out keyboard that he delighted in using to pull up a VPN. Nothing fancy, but enough that he could at least check his work email during slow moments on patrol. 

The inbox barely managed to load on the tiny little screen, the text hardly legible. Peter zoomed in until the reading settings were set to ‘legally blinder than Daredevil,’ only to immediately wish he hadn’t. There at the top of the otherwise clean inbox were three emails. One from staff that announced the re-opening of the fourth floor break room. One from management, boasting new policy changes. 

And one from Harry Osborn. 

Peter selected it, warehouse stake-out temporarily forgotten. His gut twisted painfully and made a new residence in his throat, only relaxing slightly when he realized it was an invitation to the end of year Oscorp party. Something, something, New Years, something, something, hard working team, _something_. The email wasn’t addressed to Peter Parker specifically. He was caught in the shrapnel of the blast invitation, that was all. He couldn’t decide if that was a relief or a disappointment.

A sharp sliver hidden somewhere in his chest reminded him that there would be no cause to assume Harry was even inclined to reach out. He had good reason to never want to speak to Peter again. Part of Peter wanted to pick at it, push the interaction and Harry until his once-friend confirmed exactly what Peter already knew. Hearing all that Peter caused, all that Harry lost, snarled out from someone he so badly wanted forgiveness from would at least make it final. Maybe then his innards would stop trying to claw their way out of him every time he saw a glimpse of Harry in the hallways, or whenever his name cropped up in Peter’s emails. 

The more rational part of him knew to keep his distance. Harry would be well within rights to be angry, but Peter couldn’t afford any final severance from his childhood friend. He wasn’t entirely convinced that Peter still being employed by Oscorp wasn’t some sort of oversight, but it certainly kept him from asking for a raise, a promotion, anything. He was just past thirty and still made the bulk of his income from setting up water bottles just fancy enough that high paid executives felt catered to, and checking to make sure presentation screens were working. It was a glorified version of tech support. Still, it was the highest paying of his jobs, and without it he wouldn’t have been able to move out of his aunt’s home after high school. When the unresolved anger, hurt, and fear settled in his bones, he didn’t have anything for Harry but gratitude. Peter sighed and flicked the flip phone shut. 

His eyes slid back over to the warehouse and he was suddenly relieved by the oppressive silence. It wasn’t likely anything was going to happen which only made it easier to focus. The string of robberies at various tech warehouses had been notable only due to the viral video of Jeff French, the factory worker that had apparently been too high to remember stealing a whole datapad. Even when the police pulled it out of his pocket in the precinct, the guy had apparently had a near melt down over it. There were memes of the shocked guy getting tased all over the place, and it wouldn’t have even made Spider-Man’s radar except… 

The same thing happened a week or so later. Well, not the exact same. Similar enough. An employee at Stark Enterprises had tried to walk out of their lab with a company datapad clearly in her hands. She was flattened to the floor by security before she could even get off the premises, but the same look of surprise and confusion settled in as she seemed to suddenly come back to awareness. Unlike Jeff French, she took her circumstances in stride, and pled guilty in her following court date with a vacant, disbelieving face. 

Something about it made his spidey sense fidget. Not enough to spot what was wrong with it, of course not, but enough that he planned to spend his night here in New Jersey. Just in case. Maybe he could prevent another one of those disbelieving and resigned faces in court that made his heart ache. 

To make his own life easier, Peter arrived at the scene far before there was any sign of life in the warehouse to web up the back exits, all the side doors he couldn’t see from his current perch, and the windows that opened up onto fire escapes. The new polymer mix he concocted did the job spectacularly. He tapped his thumb against the tiny module at his wrist, still a little warm from the earlier activity, and was unable to stop himself from praising the thing like it was more than just mechanical design. At least the ‘ _good job, little fella_ ’ resided firmly in his head instead of aloud. 

Thanks to the wild success of his new toy, he knew in advance that any thief needed to enter or exit the building only from the sides Spider-Man had a clear view of. The main entrance behind the decorative fountain, the side door, and the open air deck on the second floor.

Peter poked the home button on his shitty burner, and stared down at it blinked 4:15 a.m. up at him. If all went well, there would be nothing unusual to spy on here and he would be out walking dogs in a couple hours. Then, to work like normal. He bit back a sigh.

_Brrrrrrrrrt. Brrrrrrt._

The phone started vibrating and Peter threw it off the side of the building as hard as he could. 

He was fast enough to web it back into his hand, but couldn’t help the way he stared down at the caller ID. ‘ _H.A.M.M.E.R Tech._ ’ 

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up in protest, spidey sense having a blast setting off every single alarm he packed away in his head. His stomach made a break for the ground floor when he opened the flip phone. It automatically answered. With video. Peter never scrambled so hard in his entire life to cut off the video feed, slamming the phone shut harder than was strictly necessary. His chest heaved, eyes wide as dinner plates. He stared at the little offending device for a moment before snapping it open to frantically search for answer-call settings. 

What kind of sadist, human being hating, _supervillain_ set the default settings to answer with video? He swore up a streak that would have lost him the title of ‘friendly’ if anyone heard, slamming the select button on ‘audio only’ so hard he felt the little plastic keyboard bend in protest. He slammed it another couple times for good measure. 

The tiniest of twinges from his spidey-sense let him know the call was incoming before ‘H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech’ displayed across the screen again. He looked to the warehouse as if the connection would make itself apparent, but neither the building nor the cheap HammerPhone in his hand offered anything in the way of explanation. 

He pushed his thumb down on the accept button before his gaze returned to the phone. He hesitated as he brought the phone up to his ear with one hand, rolling his mask up over his nose with his other. 

“...Hello?” Peter’s voice barely a croak, rough from disuse like it always was after patrol. 

“Gooood morning, loyal Hammer-head!” The stranger’s voice was either ignorant or uncaring about it being the ass-crack of dawn. “I’m calling you this morning from H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech’s gorgeous call center. Seriously the sights are endless. Jerry’s crack is visible from eight cubicles away. Ain’t that right, Jer-Bear—?” 

“Uhm,” Peter interrupted. “Sorry. Who is this? How did you get this number?” 

“What?” The voice sounded surprised to be spoken to. “Oh. I’m Wilson. You bought a H.A.M.M.E.R. phone recently, right? Registered it to this number? Well congratulations, you lucky son-of-a-bitch because I am now contractually bound to let you know of the best upcoming H.A.M.M.E.R. deals the actual moment they become available. That’s our demonstration of love to you, dear hammerhead.” 

“Hammerhead,” Peter echoed weakly. “Because—” 

“You’re a customer. Keep up!” A pause. “Okay, well I invented the term this morning and marketing told me ‘get out of this office, you’re not in this department, Wilson’ but I think they’re going to come around to it if it catches on with the people. You’re a man of the people, aren’t you? You sound like a man of the people.” 

“I...What?” Peter rubbed his free hand over the eyes of his mask as he felt a headache coming on rapidly. The voice, Wilson, didn’t stop long enough to indicate he even heard Peter’s distress. Instead he hurtled directly into all the OSHA violations he could see from his desk. It took Peter a couple tries before his voice worked again. “Are you a telemarketer?” 

Silence. Surreal, suddenly blessed silence. 

“Well yeah,” Wilson said slowly. Almost worried. “Are you… drunk? High? You’re not about to pass out, are you? That would be so lame.” 

“What? No! I’m not—I’m—” Peter sputtered. “Do you know what time it is?” 

“4:20, blaze it.” 

“4:20 in the morning! I was—I was sleeping!” Peter seethed out his lie with so much conviction he almost convinced himself that the interruption wasn’t the most exciting thing to happen all night. “And you got this number how exactly? Just by checking recent number registrations to see who was already dumb enough to purchase H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech? Try to wheedle them out of more money? The people who buy these cheap phones are _desperate—_ ” 

“Ohh, _self burn!_ Those are rare,” Wilson laughed and the Brooklyn 99 quote took some of Peter’s righteous anger with it. Not all of it, though. 

“I’m just saying, it’s way too fucking early for telemarketers! This is an insane hour,” Peter insisted. 

“Hey, you’re the one who picked up.” 

Peter’s words died on the tip of his tongue and he realized belatedly that he was pacing. He stilled and looked down off the side of the building. The middle-most level had an open air cafeteria area, it looked like. Chairs were stacked neatly on top of tables with umbrellas speared through the middle. The deck was as empty as it had been all night, despite being the easiest (illicit) entrance to the warehouse. He chewed on his lower lip. 

“Yeah, alright,” he conceded. 

There was a short silence before Wilson’s voice came through his phone. “I’m sorry, what was that?” 

“I said ‘yeah, alright.’ As in yes, I did pick up. You got me there.” Peter shrugged and jumped up onto the ledge overlooking the deck before dropping down to sit with his legs dangling off the side. He kicked them lazily back and forth in the air. “So whatcha sellin’?” 

“For real?” Wilson sputtered. “Wait, fuck, shitballs, don’t answer that, just keep that lovely frame of mind. What am I selling? Lots and lots of uh… It’s pure gold, not consumerist garbage, I’m sure. Uh… Hm. Hold on.” 

Peter gawked. “You don’t know?” 

“Listen here, baby boy. How about you try this one on for size?” Wilson cleared his throat theatrically and the papers rustled again. His voice dropped low and syrupy when he spoke again. “When people think of innovation, they think of H.A.M.M.E.R. When they think of style, they think H.A.M.M.E.R. And when you’re looking for a toaster-oven that models all that and more, look no further than the HAM-1750 Counter-top Confectionery.” 

Peter’s laugh ripped out of him with enough force that he had to reach down to grasp the edge of the building for support. 

“Don’t laugh! It’s a thing of beauty. It has three internal shelves, eight settings, unique programming to do anything from roast your Thanksgiving turkey to toast your bread.” 

Peter reached under his mask to wipe away a tear, settled down long enough to catch a breath, then was wheezing just as hard when he choked on his own voice. “It’s five in the morning and you’re selling me a toaster?” 

“Sweet thing, you’re killing me here.” Wilson said it like it was a matter of fact. “Wait, when would _you_ sell a toaster? At night? Toast is a breakfast thing.” 

“Don’t call me that. And not necessarily!” Peter held up a finger as if Wilson could see it. “Say it’s eleven-something at night. You’ve just finished a book. Nothing else is going to hold up to that high feeling for the rest of the night, so approaching new books or Netflix or whatever? All out of the question. _But_ , you’re too wired to sleep.” 

“O holy Lord Beyoncé who art forever on tour with Destiny’s Child, full of grace, deliver me from pretentious book nerds,” Wilson muttered, and Peter pretended not to hear it. 

“But you want something to sink your teeth into. That’s when you see it, the pinnacle of modern design, the— Is it seriously called the counter-top _ham?_ ” Peter lost his momentum and burst out laughing again. 

“HAM-1750, thank you very much, smartass.” 

“Better than ‘sweet thing,’ but still not on the money,” Peter spoke through a lazy grin. “Much better than HAM-1750, but who am I to argue with the H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech marketing department?”

“Hey don’t take it personally. They tossed me out on my ass too and I’m the most charming guy I know. They’re probably just a money laundering front.” 

Peter’s head tipped back and he barked out a sharp laugh that was far louder than he should have allowed. “Holy shit. Doesn’t your boss listen in on these calls? Aren’t you supposed to actually sell me something?” 

Wilson fell silent for a split second. When he spoke again his voice was lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Say it ain’t so, baby boy. I’ve been here for all of our one call and I don’t like the idea that I’m not in for a tidal wave of fun and sexy conversations about countertop toasters.” 

“Baby boy?” Peter balked. “ _Sexy?_ ” 

“Well not _yet,_ ” Wilson scoffed right back, “but the night isn’t getting any younger, the allure of countertop appliances is undeniable, and you missed your chance to veto ‘baby boy’ the first time it came around.” 

Peter snorted. “One chance to veto only?” 

“That’s how vetos work, _baby boy._ Come on, I’m Canadian and even I know that executive veto power doesn’t extend beyond the bill passing the President’s desk. It’s like no-take-backsies, but _legalese._ Besides, you could always offer your name instead of being all mysterious. Don’t get me wrong, I dig the vibe! It’s very…” Wilson trailed off, like he was picking from a buffet of choices for description. “...guy-avoiding-being-served-a-court-order. As iconic as a grown man in a full length trench coat in Central Park. You just know there’s something tasty going on under there.” 

Peter laughed again, content to listen to Wilson rattle off less than flattering examples of mystique. He leaned over the side of the building to triple check that there was no one within range to hear him. An old but trusty habit. The warehouse was still empty, though freshly painted in yellows and oranges of dawn. It would be another ten minutes at least until the first few people showed up for the early shift. He ignored the way his heart rattled his ribcage in protest. It was the closest he was going to get to a thrill tonight, and it barely even counted as a risk. 

He swallowed around a dry throat, but his grin was still stubbornly present. “How about Peter instead?” 

“Peter!” Wilson sounded delighted. “Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater. Do you eat pumpkins, Peter?” 

“Only in the form of pie, but I could be convinced to branch out.” He leaned back on his hands, relishing the rush of being called his name while he was in his suit. 

It was a first for him. Probably the only instance of it he would ever allow, too. But on a brand new burner phone, out in Nowhere, New Jersey, alone with the rising run? It was safe. Peter’s mind briefly flicked through the catalogue of people he considered telling, once. Aunt May, MJ, Captain Rogers... 

Harry. 

_Gwen._

Peter’s smile fell to something sour and he hunched in on himself like he could ward away the unwelcome warmth of the sun, barely able to bring himself to tune back in to Wilson’s chatter. Not that Wilson seemed to mind. Sometime during Peter’s reflection-turned-spiral he turned to talking about Colonel Mustard being on the news. Or something. Peter wasn’t totally sure. 

Wilson’s voice faded again from his head as the first car pulled into the parking lot. It was quickly followed by a van, another couple sedans, and some dedicated bastard on a bicycle. Peter pressed himself flat against the heat unit, blending into the shadows better than anyone wearing red and blue had any right to. He watched as person after person filed in to start their day. 

It wasn’t that he harbored resentment towards them. He wasn’t sure what it was that fishhooked somewhere behind his heart and tugged whenever he watched regular people living their regular lives. Something somewhere between jealousy and bitterness. 

A trio of workers walked together, one adjusting their friend’s hard hat while another fussed with a clipboard. They laughed together and while what they were saying was lost to the drag of tires on asphalt, he recognized their smiles. It was a tired sort of resignation to everything that came with an early Monday morning, but it was sincere too. 

Another couple off to the side of the parking lot arrived in the same car. They snuck a kiss behind some of the well-trimmed hedges, grinning at each other like they held a precious secret. Peter’s lips tugged up into a smile, a pale imitation of theirs. 

Sure, the friends might fall into drama, might never speak again. The not-very-stealthy secret couple might break up, and all their skirting of company policy or hiding behind hedges would’ve been for nothing. But… They might not, too. Those friends could be sharing memories in the nursing home together, racing down the halls in motorized wheelchairs as they laughed together. The couple might get the chance to stay in each other’s arms until their breath finally left them for good. They would all get to live their lives, die quietly with dignity. It was something parallel to fulfillment that he was so bitterly jealous of, he thought. Knowing that the furious hunger for _more_ that kept him up for days on end wasn’t going to leave.

As long as that was the case, then this was a world Spider-Man wasn’t welcome in. But that was alright. Even the imitation of it that he lived as Peter Parker was luxury enough. He liked to think he made peace with it, like a grown-up superhero and all that jazz. It was fine. He was _fine._

After all, Peter was thirty-two without any sign of crows feet, no greys, nothing to show his mutation had even considered letting him return to what he was. He was in the best shape of his life and that peak seemed to keep getting higher and higher. He wasn’t even sure if he _did_ age. The older he got, the more the still-youthful face in the mirror reminded him that he might remain spindly and gawky forever. 

It wasn’t like it forced him to recognize that dying of old age with dignity and grace might not be in the cards. Or like it steered his thoughts towards the patience reassurance that, no, it was going to be bloody. That all he could do was make certain that it was only his blood. No one else needed to be caught up in carnage that followed him step for step. No more glazed over unseeing green eyes, necks crooked at impossible angles—

He swallowed, blinked rapidly to try and clear his thoughts. It worked somewhat to banish the gaping loneliness that threatened to make itself known. 

His stomach gurgled.

Maybe he was just hungry. 

“...Petey? Petey-pie? Peter… Baby boy, c’mon you didn’t fall asleep on me, did you?” Wilson’s voice pressed through and the weight Peter nearly buried himself under suddenly was ten times lighter. 

He smiled. 

“No, not asleep.” He filtered through his memory, trying to pick up on bits he heard Wilson say. He came up blank. One of the warehouse workers finally strode out on to the deck and Peter’s gaze followed absently. “Just mulling over where I would even put a Counter-top Ham. I mean I could barely afford this state-of-the-art flip phone.” 

Wilson made a wounded sound. “Oh, baby _boy—_ ” 

“You know my name,” Peter groused, watching as the guy in coveralls walked around the perimeter of the deck. 

“Tell me you didn’t get that stupid little gas station phone. The one that’s cheap as shit. Peter it’s so tacky. It’s not even a smart phone. Are you struggling financially, baby boy? Why didn’t you _say_ so? Dear old Wilson will take care of you just you hang on.” 

Peter rolled his eyes. “I don’t want a sugar daddy, thanks. I’m good. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be taking my money? Not giving me money?” 

“Who said anything about giving?” He could practically hear Wilson bat his eyelashes innocently. “I meant that I was going to make you privy to deals that could get me fired, Mr. Pumpkin Eater. For the low, low price of $69.69—” 

“No,” Peter said firmly. “Whatever it is, _no._ ” 

The guy on the deck lit up a cigarette as Wilson spouted outrage into his ear. Peter ran a hand over the back of his neck, trying to smooth down the shivers that started to vie for his attention. His lenses narrowed as the sensation became stronger and stronger until—

The guy looked up directly at Peter. 

His spidey sense _screamed_ at him and Peter slowly pulled the phone from his ear, setting it on the roof. He could hear Wilson’s voice small and distant, but it drowned under the throb of his pulse in his ears and his certainty that there was no way, no possible way, someone three stories beneath him looking into the rising sun could possibly see Spider-Man where he was tucked into the shadows. But the guy stared up at him steadily, paid no mind to what should or shouldn’t be possible. He pulled the cigarette to his lips and Spider-Man’s lenses narrowed to magnify and focus on the orange dot. 

Hell, it even looked like they were making eye-contact. He swore quietly under his breath and shifted his weight so that he could move quickly the second he had the chance. He pulled his mask down over his nose and mouth again, feeling safer already under its cover. The guy had to leave at some point. Leave or make a move. Something. He was just a civilian, there was no reason for him to have an encounter with Spider-Man and yet spidey sense seemed to firmly disagree. 

He controlled his breathing, steadied himself, and watched in horror as the guy deliberately stretched out until the light of his cigarette touched gently under one of the leaves belonging to a dried up plant residing amongst others in the equally dried up garden beds. The flame sparked up instantly, even as the reality of the move happened in slow motion. The guy put the cigarette to his lips then walked confidently away from the growing bonfire he started, pulling the fire alarm with a lazy confidence that Peter didn’t have time to pay attention to as the shrill alarm bells speared mercilessly through his ear drums. He clawed at the sides of his mask, fumbled with the protective layering he slid into place with trembling fingers. It felt like the breath had been punched out of him, like it was blood that trickled from his finally muffled ears. His head spun and only then did it hit him. 

Spider-Man heard the rush of footsteps from workers all hurrying to their designated exits—half of which he had meticulously _webbed closed._

He swore violently and launched off the side of the building, running down the glass and shooting webbing at the top of a table umbrella to pull himself closer. The wooden structure of the garden beds was ablaze. Flames licked down the polished deck, sinking lower out of sight onto what Spider-Man assumed must be support beams. He bounced back and forth from foot to foot for a moment before deciding there was nothing he could do to stop the threat quickly enough, which meant he had to get everyone to safety. He pivoted on his heel and bolted into the building. People on the other end were struggling with the thoroughly webbed safety latches on windows leading to the fire escape and now was not the moment to let himself drown in guilt. Instead, he made a mental note to stop breaking fire codes then ran full speed ahead at the jammed window. 

“Move!” he shouted, gesturing. “Move, move!” 

People heard him and complied in time for Spider-Man to connect with the glass shoulder first with a crunch. The window splintered and he grunted, backing up to run at it again with more force. This time he shattered through it and launched clear off the landing of the fire escape. 

For a moment, his heart lived in the back of his throat as he tried to run on empty air. He shot a web out above and behind him, at the window just above the one he’d broken. Legs tucked, he used his momentum and the bounce of the webbing to hurl his body at that window too. He connected heels first, spraying glass all around the carpet as he stumbled to land steady. A couple people had little tell-tale cuts on their cheeks, but they must have moved when they saw him coming. Steady again, he motioned for them to go ahead and evacuate. 

Three more floors left. 

He belatedly realized that he probably wasn’t going to be done in time for dog-walking. If he hurried, he might still make it in time for his Oscorp shift.

So he ignored the way the sun kept on rising higher and higher in the sky despite his plight and charged after the last person and dove off the fire escape—with purpose this time. He spread his arms out and closed his eyes to find his rhythm. With the next thwip rocketting him into a third window, he found his plan. 

“Hi folks,” he told the panicked workers. “Sorry to _drop in_ on you. No need to panic! The fire’s on the other side of the building. Fire escape should be just fine, so go slowly, help your neighbors, and remember that you’re still entitled to your hourly rate during escapes.” 

He winked with one of his lenses and a nervous chuckle rippled through the crowd. As they started shuffling into an orderly evacuation, Spider-Man tipped backwards until he caught himself on his palms. He shoved off the ground hard enough to let gravity pull him into a series of back handsprings. He let himself gain momentum until he felt the hollow of the floor give a little. Then he spun in the air, webbed the floor, and pulled hard. Breaking through flooring was harder than windows. It took some super strength, but not as much as he expected. Shoddy construction was for once a blessing.

He fell in a cloud of drywall dust into the basement level. There were only a couple people there, their backs retreating out of sight by the time Spider-Man surveyed the area properly. The alarm made his head throb down where it echoed. He grit his teeth and charged to the layer that was directly beneath the deck. Ashes were already falling from the ceiling and he could see the fire itself raging through holes in growing scorch marks. 

The first batch of webbing went to the east, latched on to a support column with three more batches _thwipped_ right next to each other to make his grip on it stronger. He tugged on it experimentally, then dug his heels into the concrete floor and pulled as hard as he could. _Crrrrrkkkkh,_ the pillar protested, spitting out drywall dust clouds as cracks made themselves known between the brick and mortar. Spider-Man shouted out in exertion and pulled harder still. The pillar gave way and he didn’t wait for the dust to settle to latch on to the pillar in the west. 

The coating of drywall on the cement meant that his grip on the floor wasn’t as good as he wanted it to be. He made up the difference by slinging four more webs to latch on to the western pillar and screamed through his clenched jaw as he his full strength to drag the pillar askew.

The ceiling above him rumbled, wobbled nauseatingly, then pitched forward. Spider-Man rode the push of air for extra speed as he bolted for the exit. He webbed the door open long before he hurled himself into the stairway, flying around the corner. His feet touched maybe two of the stairs before he was face to face with his handiwork. 

There in front of him was the wreckage of the deck. With the air beneath it stolen away, the flames reduced to weak smouldering. The rest of the building should be salvageable, with some quick intervention. He threw a web up to the top of the building and scurried up the side quickly, checking to make sure the secondary sirens he heard weren’t just his sensitive ears ringing. His shoulders heaved as he tried to catch his breath, but there it was. Accompanying noise was the telltale flashing lights of a fire truck. Civilians were here to save their own, to put things back into the realm of normal and safe again. He did everything he could to make their jobs easier, but it was their world again. 

The sun was high in the sky as he retrieved his burner phone off the rooftop. The little plastic thing was overheated, and out of battery according to the flashing icon that reprimanded him for trying to pull up the home screen. He shoved it into the hidden pocket on his suit. 

It was time for Spider-Man to make his exit. 

* * *

As glad as he was to be back in his city, it was late in the afternoon by the time he returned and that meant he was in for his usual greeting. 

Muggers all over the streets were bolder in the sharpened shadows of the alleyways tourists were stupid enough to venture through. An afternoon brawl broke out in front of a bar between two bridesmaids. There was even a little old man he stopped from whacking someone who cut him in line with his walker. Spider-Man didn’t have the time to go home and change, never mind catch the last hour or so of his shift. 

He would just have to support his eccentric hobby with more after-hours food delivery. 

(He liked to pretend it was some extraordinary burden instead of the most fun thing in the world to show up to deliver someone’s take out in his mask and suit. The tips were certainly better.) 

The sun faded down past the horizon again by the time he was safe in his apartment once more. Peter tugged his ash stained mask off his head, ran his fingers through sweaty mess of hair. Big white lenses stared up at him and he ignored the way the vacant stare seemed somehow judgmental. Guilt already boiled in his gut for skipping work, but he did his best. 

He walked past the kitchen counter and stared down at the line of various burner phones. He swapped his cheap smart-phone out for the shitty little H.A.M.M.E.R. phone he had dropped off to charge. Peter’s teeth dug into the fabric of his glove and he stretched the weariness out of his fingers as he pressed down on the home button to try and boot it up again. It blinked back to life. Despite surviving some casual arson, it seemed to be just fine.

The H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech logo flickered across the screen as it rebooted. Peter tried to push the image of the guy with the cigarette out of his head. Tried to quash the residual distress his spidey sense wouldn’t let him forget so soon. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to leave the adrenaline out in the streets. Maybe he needed another quick patrol before sleep. 

He tapped his foot nervously and chugged down another glass of water that tasted a little metallic along with the usual bitter trace of minerals. When he opened his eyes they didn’t leave the tiny screen. It was still, as if nothing unusual at all happened while it lay dead on the roof. There was an odd twinge of disappointment in Peter’s gut that he wasn’t sure how to process—

 _Ping-brrt!_ One new voicemail. 

_Ping-brrt!_ Two new voicemail(s). 

_Ping-brrt!_ Three new voicemail(s).

A smile spread across Peter’s lips that he couldn’t explain even if he wanted to as more and more notifications filtered through. He flicked the phone open, dialing into his somehow entirely full voicemail, feeling weight leave his shoulders as Wilson’s noticeably panicked voice asked if he was alright, that he heard fire alarms, would Peter please call him back, he “wouldn’t even try to sell the toaster, _scout’s honor._ ”

Peter methodically deleted each increasingly distressed message. It was a little past two in the morning and despite the itch that the guy with the cigarette left under his skin, he needed to sleep for a couple hours before he was up to do some dog walking then a shift at Oscorp. He couldn’t afford to lose those gigs. 

He pressed the redial button, knowing full well he would get Wilson’s voicemail. 

“ _You’ve reached Wilson Johnson, proud H.A.M.M.E.R. call center employee. This is exactly what I imagined I would be doing with my life. So leave the message that I cannot wait to hear after the beep. Love you._ ”

Even through his exhaustion, Peter grinned. “Hi Wilson. It’s Peter. I’m safe, everything’s fine. I’ll tell you everything in the morning.” 

He closed the flip phone. 

The restlessness in his chest settled unexpectedly. Maybe it was putting a name and a voice to the distress, but Peter felt appeased in knowing he could soothe one person’s concern at least. He could fall asleep knowing he was leaving the world a little brighter than he found it that morning. It seemed a fair enough trade for Wilson’s welcome company in the grim hours of dawn.

He yawned and placed the phone on the pillow next to him so he didn’t forget. The screen read 2:33 a.m., blinking the numbers at him with indifference to his nightly existential wrestling match.

Before he knew it, he was out cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Detailed trigger warnings: Mention of character deaths (Gwen, Norman), extremely foul language (Wade), unsafe gun use (Wade, again), and arson.
> 
> Thank you so much to the MANY PEOPLE (twelve!!!) who helped beta this monstrosity of a first chapter! (Traffy, Jen, Emi, Devil, Sun, Rii, Deadlocked, Lo, Devral, Hanuko, Tsuki, and of course El and Joe!) The server has been so incredibly supportive and encouraging, too. I had only planned to lurk, but. Here I am. With a goddamn longfic.
> 
> It feels good to be writing again. :'')


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Ho don't do it meme ](https://memedocumentation.tumblr.com/post/113017402175/explained-hoe-dont-do-it-meme)
> 
> Also hey, plot is happening. Stay sharp. Guessing and wild speculation very much encouraged.

Wade was too big for his cubicle. He knew it, his manager Mark knew it. Cheryl in the cubicle next to him certainly knew it. On his first day, he knocked down the entire row of fabric covered separators, like dominoes. In his defense, he was stressed because on his first call ever someone fucking _died_. 

It wasn’t his fault, either! Honest! 

The _death_ , at least. 

The cubicle thing was _very much_ his fault. 

Wade spent the wee hours of the morning making perfectly respectable conversation with some guy named Peter, and then there was a soft crunch. Then sirens. Then more sirens. Then something that sounded like a building collapsing in on itself. Wade would know, too. He’s collapsed plenty of buildings.

He tried not to freak out too badly at his desk. He stayed put, listening and trying to talk to Peter who was clearly not there anymore. Hopefully due to evacuation. When the line disconnected abruptly, he called back. A default voicemail box greeted him, so he tried to keep his rambling to a minimum. By the second and third voicemails, he wasn't exactly subtle. 

"Heeey, baby boy, you'll never guess who! Sure hope you have a decent data plan. I can sell you a better one, probably. If you're alive. Please be alive. There's a survey I'm supposed to fill out after each call, with a little box for customer satisfaction, and I'm not super sure where _dead_ ranks. Okay, just uh. Call me, beep me, if you wanna reach me." 

The most likely scenario was that a fire called for evacuation and Peter's phone got messed up in the process. The building collapsing sound was probably just someone stepping on the phone. 

A horrible pit in Wade’s stomach told him that it probably wasn’t that simple. Normally that kind of scene didn't get under his skin so badly but… This was a call center. This was supposed to be Normie Life (™), with the capital N and everything. People weren't supposed to die while he worked this job, and the idea that he would never be able to escape the bloodbath of his life upset him more than he was able to articulate. 

Hah. Call Channel 18 and Colonel Mustard, Wade Wilson was feeling _quiet._

Then there was a noise behind his chair that startled him badly enough that when he stood up reflexively, he nearly rammed directly into Cheryl. In the moment, all he knew was that if she accidentally made contact with the image inducer gloves on his hands, or felt the gun he was secretly packing, he would be fired before the end of his train of thought. 

So with the nimbleness and grace that only came with being a world class assassin, he spun out of the way and managed to avoid even so much as a glancing touch. But, the polite apology on his tongue died when he felt one of his stupid, ogre broad shoulders whack into something that felt like fancy fabric wrapped cardboard… and the first thunk that followed it. Then another. And another.

Wade turned slowly and hoped that maybe if he thought about it hard enough, what was most certainly happening maybe wasn’t happening at all. Like people do with The Secret. 

_A really horrible way to keep a secret,_ Wade thought to himself as he watched cubicle wall crash into cubicle wall, people screaming and shoving away from their desks as their electronics and papers were swiped mercilessly by the falling stalls. He sighed. There were lots of perfectly valid ways to keep secrets, but announcing you had one and labeling “The Secret” was a rough start. 

  
“—off to a rough start,” Mark said and his voice snapped Wade back to the present. Day one on the job and he was already sitting through a ‘talk.’ A rough start was right. Wade fidgeted. Mark sighed. “Look, you’re brand new, you couldn’t have known how easily those things go down—” 

“Yessir,” Wade interrupted a little too eagerly, wincing inwardly at himself. 

Mark carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. “—and there’s clearly a uh… Size disparity. A cubicle might not be the best place for you.” 

Wade’s heart sank. He couldn’t keep a job for one day if it wasn’t killing people, and even at a call center he’d still managed to send people running and screaming. 

“...So I think we should move your station into the old break room,” Mark pulled open a desk drawer, apparently blissfully unaware that he’d subverted Wade’s expectations in less than fifteen words. Wade’s jaw hung open as Mark pressed a scanned copy of a map to the space on the desk between them. The image looked like it had been deep fried eighteen ways til Sunday, but Wade couldn’t think of something clever to say about it. He was too fixated on Mark’s felt tip pen dragging a line from his office to Wade’s… office? 

“Like my own office,” Wade blurted, interrupting again. 

Mark nodded and laughed quietly. “Sort of. It’s all yours, at least. It’s a bit of a trek through the construction areas of the building, and it isn’t scheduled for renovation for another year. It’s nothing pretty to look at and the windows are covered with paper and painter’s tape but—”

“My own office,” Wade sounded awed. “I can’t believe it. I thought I was going to get _fired._ ”

“Are you kidding?” Mark balked. “People drop from this job like flies. If you’re still willing to work, you’re not going anywhere.” 

Well if that wasn’t a big ol’ barrel of red flags, but it warmed Wade’s heart nonetheless. As long as he was willing to work, he belonged here.

“Are you… crying?” Mark looked concerned. 

“No!” Wade scrubbed at his face, shook his head. “What am I saying? Yes, of course I am. Men cry too, Mark. Don’t enforce patriarchal gender norms.” 

“I, uh—”

Whatever Mark was going to say got cut off by Wade as he whirled around the desk to tug Mark into a crushing hug. “Shh, let me have this moment. I’m happy.” 

Mark patted Wade on the back in a way that was probably meant to be supportive but came off more confused. Wade couldn’t care less. He still had his job. He released Mark, grinned down at his manager. Mark just looked like a deer caught in headlights. 

“So… not a hugger,” Wade spoke slowly. Mark nodded. “Got it. Sorry, my bad. Here, how about a high-five?” 

He held up his hand, fingers wiggling. Mark glanced at the hand, at Wade, then back at the hand. Wade gave the most reassuring smile he could manage. Cautiously, Mark reached up to smack it just as Wade tugged it away to sing-song, "Too slow!"

It did the trick. Mark was visibly fighting off a smile. "Yeah, yeah."

Wade grabbed the deep-fried map off the desk, crumpled it and stuffed it in his hoodie pocket. He whistled as he left Mark’s little office, which retrospectively, wasn’t the best call. The call center room was still a disaster. Desks tipped over, papers all over the place, chords sticking up and huge swaths of coffee stains. 

Wade frowned at the sight, taking it all in. 

“Hey, hey! Hi, yes, hi, it’s me. Your favorite person in the world right now, I know,” Wade waved at the visibly exhausted workers to catch everyone’s eyes. “I got this. I’ll sort it all, clean it up, everything. And just for good measure, lunch is on me today. Someone order it up and I’ll pay. Whaddya think? Fair?” 

Smiles slowly started to catch around the room. Now that it was less of a disaster that someone had to clean up and more of an unexpectedly long lunch with free food, people seemed downright cheerful. He even got a few high-fives and sassy comments about ‘way to make an entrance, Wilson.’ His grin stayed firmly in place.

He itched like mad to roll up his sleeves for this chore. Tragically, the image inducers only went so far up his arms. Wade took a moment to close his eyes and make peace with getting sweaty. When he opened them he caught Cheryl checking out his guns. Metaphorical guns, for once. He winked at her, then got to work fixing up the destruction he was used to leaving in his wake.

Mending instead of breaking had a nice feeling to it. 

* * *

Mark made the old breakroom sound like it was something out of nightmares. He apologized a few times to Wade, quietly offered to keep a look out for options if they should arise, etc., etc. As Wade stood in the room and looked at it in all its glory, he knew he made the right call when he told Mark not to worry about it. It was perfect. 

Wade wheeled the old rusty electronics trolley across the threshold as he looked the place over. Old construction paper covered up the windows, sealed down with painter’s tape, just as promised. It meant that there was no natural light, just the flickering bulbs hanging loose from the ceiling. Incandescent bulbs. The ones people used to have before corporations made a vague attempt at cutting costs in the name of the environment. Warm yellow light filled the empty, paint-stained space. 

The carpet was in such a state that it might as well have been hardwood. The wheels of the trolley slid over it easily, parking next to the single desk in the center of it all. Save for the enormous scuff across one side, it was a stunning piece. Mahogany, maybe. And the scuff made it look like it survived a fight with a werewolf. Wade ran his fingertips over it, dusting off the splinters that tried to dig into him, and nodded in appreciation. 

His watch beeped at him for the umpteenth time, letting him know that not only was the working day over, but that it had been so for the past seven hours. By all legal definitions of a working shift, his first day was over. Still, he wasn’t ready to let it go. Not yet. 

So he put on some Earth, Wind, and Fire, checked the little box that set it to repeat, and set about rigging his phone and computer on his desk. 

The sixty-fifth time Maurice White asked him, ‘ _say do you remember?_ ’, he was done. 

He tapped his nearly dead phone to revel in the achievement in silence. Wade put his hands on his hips, grinned at the whole array as the ancient machine tried it’s best to connect to the internet. Even with an ethernet cord plugged in like an I.V., it was a close call. He felt it in his heart. 

“Mr. Johnson?” 

"Mr. Johnson was my father, please call me Wilson!" Wade turned to see Mark peeking his head in, looking confused. He smiled and gestured around himself grandly. “What do ya think? I mean it was a little bit ‘Design on a Dime,’ if you catch my drift, but I think I did pretty well!" 

Mark still stared at Wade, instead of the space Wade painstakingly turned into an office. There was even a shitty dollar store coffee pot sat on the floor by the far wall. Complete with a mug that read, 'Mondays, amiright?' Wade nodded towards it pointedly, not above digging for compliments.

"...Were you here all night?" Mark asked instead. 

Wade slumped. "I got excited." 

"But you have a shift today, too." 

Wade nodded and fussed at the ties of his hoodie. "I know! I'm not planning on skipping or anything, boss, I promise." 

Mark snorted and shrugged. "Alright. Don't do that again, though. That's pretty explicitly in the rules. Oh! Which reminds me!" 

Mark paused to ruffle around in his briefcase, then pulled out a thick ringed book. The front page of it was glossy, even if the whole thing hung kind of limp in his hands. 'Employee Handbook' was written across the glossy white cover in sharpie. 

"It's _huge,_ " Wade sounded awed. He gasped softly. "Size _does_ matter." 

Mark shook his head but he looked amused as he turned to leave Wade in his new office. "Inappropriate workplace conversation, Wilson. Page 37." 

Wade felt his lips tug into a rare, heartfelt smile. 

_Ugh,_ what was wrong with him? 

He shook his head to snap out of it and threw himself into his chair. Now that he had a room to himself, it was going to be a lot easier to try and dig up information to which he wasn’t supposed to have access. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he waited for the log-in sequence to finish. Next to his left wrist, his phone began initializing after the VPN connection was secured. He wouldn't have noticed, except when his phone proudly beeped at him.

_1 new voicemail, UNKNOWN NUMBER_

Wade stared at the screen above the number keys. It stared right back at him. 

"Well, then," he harrumphed. "Aren't you a handy little plot device." 

He pressed the voicemail key and suddenly Peter's voice filled the room. 

_'Hi Wilson. It's Peter—'_

If he replayed the message a few times to soothe his frazzled nerves, then no one needed to know.

* * *

Morning slid over Peter like warm syrup. He felt the drenching of sunlight on his left shoulder, the way it spilled onto his neck, and where it caught in his dark hair until the warmth of it was nearly unbearable. He squirmed and felt something soft at his nose. The heat draped over him spread down to his toes as he nuzzled forward to kiss his bride-to-be softly, reaching out to touch her waist. 

Only there was nothing soft and human shaped in his hand, and hard plastic smacked against his nose. He jerked back, blinked his eyes open and stared down at the little flip phone sat on his pillow. Definitely not MJ. His heart fell all forty stories between his shitty little apartment and the NYC traffic raging on below. He allowed a moment of self pity before the phone buzzed again and he was faced with the horrible truth: Peter Parker woke up trying to make out with his phone. 

He cringed _hard_. 

(Maybe it was time to re-download Tinder.) 

He reached for the little phone and flicked it open, squinted at the ‘H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech’ ID in confusion, then held it up to his ear. 

“Hello?” His voice sounded rough, breaking a little, and he cleared his throat self-consciously. His brain caught up to him and supplied him with memories from the day before. “Uh… Wilson, right?” 

“Petey-pie, apple of my eye! Thank fuck you finally picked up, I was so bored. Don’t check how many missed calls you have—” 

Peter instinctively pulled the phone away from his cheek and stared at the notifications in the corner. Thirty-eight missed calls, holy shit. Wilson was still talking, his voice babbled out into empty air while Peter mulled over hanging up.

Never mind how weird it was that he was genuinely considering keeping a _telemarketer_ around for company while he was Spider-Man, _thirty-eight was a lot._ That was stalker levels of calling. Granted, he tweaked the security on the phone himself. There was no tracing it, he knew that for sure. Plus, Wilson made decent company when he was patrolling, and…

Well, Peter Parker woke up making out with his phone. 

He groaned and tipped forward until his face mushed into the pillow with a _thwump_. 

“—Hello? Hello, Petey? You have to stop doing this. If I had hair, you’d be giving me grey hair. I swear to all seven dwarves. You have more near death experiences than—uh, I don’t know. Someone with a lot of near death experiences. I don’t know anyone off the top of my head. Cuz I work at a call center. I’m normal—”

Wilson’s voice was somehow still clear as day even just adjacent to Peter’s smushed face. He groaned again. 

“—wait, are you having _you time?_ Oh-ho- _ho!_ Petey, why didn’t you say so? I can—”

Peter shot upright and scrambled for his phone. He tossed it a couple times before landing it back against his ear. 

“No! No, I’m not having…” He looked around as if there was a chance of being overheard in his shoebox apartment. Still, he could barely speak above a hiss. “... _me time_ , Wilson. I just woke up! Was woken up, actually. By my phone. Hitting my face.” 

_Sort of._

“Awwww, I’m so sorry, baby boy,” Wilson drawled, not sounding sorry at all. His voice was low and gravelly. Peter scowled down at his pillow and adamantly ignored the urge to shiver. It was too early for this. But Wilson wasn’t done yet. “Besides, you owe me at least a little. For making me think you died. Remember that? I sure remember that! It was my first call ever, Pete. First call, on my first day, and—” 

“Okay, okay!” Peter interrupted, “But I didn’t die. That counts for something, right? Still alive! Left a message and everything.” 

Wilson scoffed. “It’s amazing the things they can do with voice emulators these days. Could’ve been fake.” 

Peter sputtered.

“Let me get this right. You called me thirty-eight times—”

“Aw, I told you not to look.”

“—because you thought that the voicemail I left might have been carefully crafted by a vocaloid AI program?” Peter bit the words out. 

There was a long silence on the other end and Peter started to regret his temper. He opened his mouth to apologize when Wilson piped up again. 

“Well,” Wilson said. “That and I actually get points for performance based on how many outbound calls I make. Sales, too, but. Outbounds are a big one. Soooo….” 

A smile fought its way across Peter’s lips. “Then we’re even?” 

There was a loud harumph on the line, then, “Yeah, yeah, fine. We’re even. So are you going to tell me what happened or not?” 

Peter’s smile faltered. Despite his promise the previous night, he didn’t actually have a good excuse. His brain rattled around in his head and he felt himself get stuck on, “Uhhhhh…”

Wilson chortled. “Oh, is this an _embarrassing_ story? I’ll trade you, embarrassing story for embarrassing story. The law of equivalent exchange.” 

“Fullmetal Alchemist?” Peter slipped out of bed, shoved his feet into mismatched ratty slippers and padded to the kitchen. “Original or Brotherhood?” 

“What kind of question is that? Are you going to ask if I cried over Hughes, too?” Wilson sounded offended. Peter just grinned and shrugged, only somewhat cognizant that Wilson couldn’t see the gesture. It didn’t seem to matter to Wilson, he kept right on going. “Some of us were grasping at straws when the original came out, desperate for good content. And it was good for what it was! It didn’t do the manga justice, mind you, but it was enough for then. Of course Brotherhood comes along and—”

Peter nodded solemnly. “Totally different ball game.” 

“Totally different ball game!” Wilson confirmed. “Wait, hold on, no subject changing!”

Peter laughed. 

“Whatever. If you’re done being a gate-keeping weeaboo—” 

“ _Ouch,_ ” Peter pressed a hand to his chest in mock injury. Then reached out and tapped his off-brand coffee maker that he found next to a dumpster. It whirred to life. If the mechanics sounded a little bit like they were screaming, Peter was far too used to it to notice. 

“—then I’ll get on with telling my story so you can tell yours. Deal?” 

Peter nodded. “Deal.” 

He pulled the phone from his cheek and poked the little speakerphone button. He listened, happy to have something to focus on during his morning routine for once. Microwaved scrambled eggs, coffee with grounds in it, and grabbing his toothbrush from a stand that was built to hold two was usually just depressing. Instead, he choked on toothpaste as he laughed when Wilson described the slow collapse of cubicles, complete with sound effects. The way Wilson described himself made him sound like some kind of bridge troll, unaware of his strength and size both. The man was a spectacular story teller. 

Peter spit into the sink and ran the water. “So then what? Did you get in trouble?” 

“That’s the best part, baby boy,” Wilson practically crooned. “Nope. My manager even apologized to me. Said it was all his fault for setting me up for failure, that he should have paid attention to the stupid dinky cubicle walls and seen them as the fire hazard they are—” 

Peter snickered. “Seriously?” 

Wilson relented, “Okay maybe it was worded differently but… he really wasn’t mad. He said newbies do it all the time and was just relieved I didn’t want to quit. So he put me over in the old side of the building, past all the renovations. I’ve got my own office now, Petey-pie!” 

“Congratulations on your sort-of promotion,” Peter remarked, dryly. “If I had known that general destruction would get me my own office, I would have tried that years ago. Not sure if I would be able to pull it off as well as you did. The domino effect sounded like a sight to see.” 

“It was,” Wilson agreed. He sighed dreamily. “Alright, your turn.” 

Peter nodded at the version of himself in the mirror with the button up and loose tie. An embarrassing story was a more than equivalent exchange for someone to talk to while on patrol. Plus, the more embarrassing the story, the less likely Wilson was to prod for more details. Just the right amount of second hand embarrassment was key here. 

“I was, uh,” He cleared his throat, then blurted out the first thing to come to mind. “I was having me time before you called the first time.” 

Peter immediately regretted it as Wilson hollered at the top of his lungs. There was a crash on the other end of the line, followed by a muffled grunt. 

_Nicely done, Parker._ Peter looked up to the ceiling. _Tell your new friend that you were jerkin’ it before you met them. Now he definitely won’t ask a ton of questions. He’ll stop talking to you_ completely _. That’s just perfect._

“Wilson?” Peter tried weakly. 

There was some muffled shuffling, a wheeze, and then some scratching as Wilson presumably got a hold of the phone again. 

“Too much information?” Peter winced. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—” 

“Baby boy,” Wilson didn’t sound mad. “I need to know how you time and a telemarketing call ended with what I can only assume was a building fire. I need to know. You remember how everyone needed to know the end of Game of Thrones? Back when we had hope that the dragon queen would take what was hers with maybe a little less blood and fire? That desperate need for knowledge? I gotta—” 

Peter sagged against his door frame, forehead rested on the wood. He laughed breathlessly. “Okay, okay, I get it. I get it. And I stopped once I got a call, just… to clear that up. In case you were worried.” 

“Awww, that’s a shame,” Wilson chirped without hesitation. 

Peter’s whole face heated up and he quickly pushed past that. “I had… toast going, of all things. But I don’t have a toaster. So it was in the oven. Y’know, broiler and all that. A healthy breakfast.” 

It sounded lame even to his own ears, but Wilson seemed to love it. He was already distractedly chattering away about how ‘counter-top ham doesn’t sound so ridiculous now, huh?’ 

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter grinned. “Whatever. But I got distracted by someone, so the uh. The fire alarm went off, obviously.” 

“But the crash,” Wilson interrupted. “What was the crash?” 

Peter’s eyes widened. He sputtered. “Well—” 

“Don’t hold out on me now, baby boy.” 

“Have I held out on you yet?” Peter snickered. “I think I’ve been pretty forth-coming, given our total lack of history.” 

This time it was Wilson’s turn to laugh. “But isn’t this how you build history? Being bold, making friends, cock in hand—” 

“Okay, okay!” Peter spoke loudly over Wilson, ignoring the resounding laugh it earned him. “The firefighters came before I could figure out how to turn off the alarm—it turns out you can’t, they have to do it—and I couldn’t hear them knocking so…” 

“They took a battering ram to your door,” Wilson finished for him. 

Peter nodded, mortified by his wholly made up scenario. He smashed the phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he pulled on his slacks, adjusting his belt. One of the numbers got pushed and he ignored the loud beep it made. 

“That’s golden,” Wilson sounded like he was damn near high. “So there you were, talking to someone on the phone, tissues nearby, dick out, and then in come these big muscle-bound firemen—” 

“Oh my god, _Wilson!_ ” Peter took the phone away from his cheek and yelled into the mic, as if it gave him more oomph to do so. His face burned and he tried to focus on hopping into his loafers. 

“What? Were they carrying pizza? Did you order extra sausage—”

“I’m going to hang up now,” Peter threatened. 

“Wait, wait, no, no!” Wilson audibly scrambled and that appeased Peter somewhat. “Holy shit this job is so boring, don’t you dare.”

“It sounded like you liked it well enough,” Peter groused, refusing to let Wilson off the hook that easy. He grabbed his briefcase, wallet, keys, and his non-burner phone before he slipped out of his apartment. He pressed the phone to his shoulder again as he locked the door behind him. “Your manager even sorta-promoted you.” 

“Petey-pie, do you want me to grovel? I’ll do it. Don’t bluff on this, I will absolutely grovel. I don’t have pride.” 

Something told Peter that that was true, so he relented a little. “Fine. No grovelling. This time.” 

“Oh, you’ve got _claws_. I like you.” 

The way Wilson said it was with all the confidence of a second grader pronouncing another second grader their best friend on the playground. As if it was that easy to make friends, that simple. Peter fought off a smile and focused on jumping down the stairwell steps in groups of five at a time instead of the weird delight building in his chest at making a friend. 

“Yeah, well,” He said, a little breathless after forty flights. His heart thudded in his chest like it did whenever he tested his own agility like that. It pumped confidence into him akin to when he was his better half. “Who wouldn’t? I’m a treasure.” 

Wilson laughed. “A national treasure. Better watch out for Nic Cage.” 

“Is it weird to have recurring dreams about Nic Cage chasing you as Ghost Rider? Asking for a friend.” Peter didn’t even get a passing glance for the comment. He loved New York so much. 

“Hmmm,” Wilson pretended to think it over. “That depends. Star sign?” 

“Mine, yours, or Nic Cage’s?” Peter retorted quickly. 

“Yours. I know mine, and good ol’ Nic is a _total_ Capricorn.”

Peter laughed. “Okay, I’ll call that bluff. What am I then? Can you read my vibes?” 

They spent the next thirty minutes debating exactly how obvious it was that Peter was, in fact, a Virgo. Peter tried to guess Wilson’s and failed miserably. Apparently he was a Scorpio, whatever that was supposed to mean. Based on Wilson’s rattling off of star sign traits, there were textbooks full of information on the topic. Even if it was something he couldn’t care less about, he was surprised as he cracked up at Wilson’s jokes anyway. 

The city whooshed by him in a blue of faces and bright vendors. Building bracketed his commute and the shape of the sky changed as he took familiar twists and turns. He didn’t usually allow himself the short-cuts Spider-Man liked—Peter Parker wasn’t supposed to know what to do if he got mugged—but as he traded one-liners with Wilson, he felt dangerously confident. He turned sharply to the left and walked into the alley like he owned it. A couple New Yorkers actually looked at him, gave him dubious looks. In retrospect, that should have been all the warning he needed. 

His spidey sense was blissfully calm, though. The usual hum and thrum of the city didn’t change with his path. The grin on his face started to actually hurt. 

“So what are you doing talking to a telemarketer, baby boy?” Wilson finally asked. “You’re a riot and a half. Or is this special just for us?” 

Peter’s laugh echoed in the alley. “Believe it or not, I’m not usually this pleasant to be around. Or so I’m told.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“I’m serious!” Peter’s spidey senses pulsed and he looked directly at the guy in the shadow of the dumpster trying and failing to palm a knife. Peter pulled the phone away from his cheek and put his hand over the mic. “I’m broke, dude. But there’s a Little Caesar’s five blocks east of here that throws out perfectly good pizzas every hour on the hour. Wait til fifteen after and you’re golden.” 

The guy froze like a deer in headlights and Peter felt his spidey senses reside to their usual low just before the man’s face relaxed into a smile. Peter smiled back and put the phone back to his ear. 

“—just talk a guy out of a mugging? Did you just get mugged? Peter did you die for real this time? Do not do this to me, it’s not even eight yet. I haven’t slept and I don’t have any cubicles to knock over for stress relief—” 

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay! Still not dead.” Peter turned, walked backwards so he could wave at the guy. The guy waved back slowly. The look on his face was priceless. “Just a friend who looked kinda hungry.” 

“Oh my god?” Wilson sounded stunned. 

“I’m not usually like this, I swear,” Peter laughed and ignored Wilson’s low mumbling something about ‘insane charisma stat.’ “Seriously! My ex-fiance said I was _dour._ ”

“Ouch,” Wilson said sympathetically. After a beat, “Ex-fiance, huh?” 

Peter’s smile fell a little. His gaze fell from the city skyline peeking out at the end of the alleyway down to the loafers he wore that were held together by Shoe-Goo. He winced. “...Yeah.” 

“That sounds tragic as fuck,” Wilson chimed in as if they were discussing the weather. “But I am sorry to say, baby boy, that you have to be at least level seven to unlock _my_ tragic backstory. I don’t go giving it out like some kind of _protagonist._ ” 

Just like that, Peter was startled out of his spiral. Images of curly hair, piles of Angela Davis novels, and dance flats resting next to his sneakers faded and his attention was on Wilson again. 

“I… Hold on, what?” 

“You know,” Wilson said, as if it was obvious. “Protagonist shit. You have a tragic backstory, but you still believe in the good of all people, the power of friendship, that the right thing is always clear and easy. Do your eyes sparkle naturally when you give the speech? Or do you have to shop that in later?” 

“Photoshop, for sure,” Peter spoke without thinking. After a pause, “Wait, hold on. What? I mentioned I have an ex-fiance—” 

“And talked yourself out of a mugging.” 

“—and made an unconventional friend—” 

“Hah!” 

“—and you think I’m a protagonist?” Peter scoffed. “I’m more like… I don’t know. That guy they pull in for an arc but can’t make their mind up about what his point is, so he’s gone and the fans don’t even notice.” 

To his surprise, his spidey senses started up again as he left the mouth of the alley. The light of the city sky and hustle of people usually meant safety. Literally no one wanted anything to do with mugging at seven in the morning. Including the muggers. 

This wasn’t a mugging, though. It felt like a phone buzzing against a sterile glass table, a sharp rattling that made his shoulders hunch up and his eyes dart back and forth to look for the cause. His gaze landed on a guy in a hat and scarf that nearly covered his face entirely. Peter shuddered as the throttling inside his spine confirmed that that’s where the danger was. The thing was, the guy was just walking. Peter’s eyes narrowed and he looked the guy’s silhouette over, trying to see the outline of a bomb or some kind of weapon. 

Instead of the sharp right that would have taken him to his office, Peter followed the man. 

“Besides,” Peter stalled. Keeping Wilson on the phone was the perfect cover for tailing someone. “I’m not the one being all mysterious about it. I’ve got an ex-fiance, I think people are half decent sometimes, and I wish the power of friendship would pay for my Netflix account but it’s otherwise alright I guess.” 

Wilson laughed. “You know that’s probably the first time anyone’s ever called me mysterious?”

“How many experience points does that buy me? Am I at level seven yet?” Peter threw back easily. The man took a hard left onto another main street. Peter stayed fifty paces behind him, but did the same. “Cuz now that you’ve released a teaser trailer, I’m curious.” 

“You drive a hard bargain but… You’re still a measly fifty points away from level seven. So close, baby boy, but no banana. No cigar either. Those are for edgy protagonists from butt-fuck nowhere Canada. Y’know, with forks for hands.”

“Don’t tell me you’re Wolverine,” Peter deadpanned. He took secret delight knowing that Logan would be furious at the comparison to someone so chatty. But Logan had run adamantium claws through perfectly good webbing on more than one occasion and maybe Spider-Man was a teensy bit petty. “How are you even holding a phone? And why aren’t you a line chef? You could chop stuff like… so easily.” 

“I stab my phone every time I make or take a call. It’s extremely costly.” Wilson made his voice lower, a cheesy gruff mimic of Wolverine’s occasional (and usually disastrous) media appearances. Peter pretended that the shiver he shook off was entirely due to spidey senses. “I gotta hand it to you, that was good. Ten points to—”

“Gryffindor.” 

“Boooo, Hufflepuff is where it’s at.” 

Peter laughed as he weaved through the crowd. The man did nothing out of the ordinary. He didn’t dawdle like a tourist, he moved with the ebb and flow of people like a native. Aside from his face being decently covered by a hat and scarf when summer had only just ended, he looked normal. 

Even if he wasn’t normal, Peter wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was and it made his heart pound in his chest. He took a steady breath of air. “You said I was how many points away from level seven? Forty now, right?” 

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re too smart for your own good, baby boy?” Wilson whined. 

“At least once a day,” Peter smiled. The crosswalk ahead was at a red light. A perfect chance for Peter to casually catch up to the guy. Maybe he could pretend to bump into him, snag whatever he was armed with. He traced a finger over the web shooter he kept on his left hand, hidden under his sleeve cuff. “So? How about it? How’s a guy go about getting forty points these days?” 

“Hmmm.” 

To his credit, Wilson sounded like he was honestly hemming and hawing over the decision. It left the conversation silent and still which gave Peter all the breath space he needed to shoulder his way closer to the guy until he was just behind him. 

“Your email address,” Wilson finally decided. 

As Wilson spoke in Peter’s ear, his spidey senses screamed. He stumbled on flat pavement. He stared down at it, looking for the stair step he missed to make him feel like he was falling. His eyes were wide and he winced as he wobbled. He could vaguely hear Wilson trying to speak to him, but nothing was coming through the throbbing between his temples that wreaked havoc at the base of his skull. He looked up to make sure he didn’t lose the guy and his blood froze. 

The man turned to look directly at him. His back was turned to the cross-walk, click-tick-ticking away to encourage pedestrians to cross. People wove and curved around them like water breaking on river rocks. _Maybe they sense the tension_ , Peter thought absently, _since no one’s heckling us for blocking the whole sidewalk_.

Peter stared right back at the man, unsure of what to do. He opened his mouth and closed it, looking for all the world like a stressed out goldfish as he stayed pinned under eyes he could barely see. Then the man swayed and Peter swayed with him as his senses screeched themselves to a crescendo. In the blink of an eye, there was silence. No more spidey senses, nothing. Just the man in front of him swaying on his feet, making no attempt to catch himself as he toppled face first towards Peter. 

“I’ll call you back,” Peter told Wilson quickly. He snapped his phone shut, shoved it into his pocket, and moved just in time to catch the strange man before he bit the concrete. 

The man’s hat fell off and he looked… normal. He wasn’t wearing a mask, he didn’t have anything particularly easy to identify about him. He looked confused as he blinked up at Peter. 

“Uh,” Peter blinked right back. “You alright, man?” 

“Who the hell are you?” The guy started squirming and Peter made no attempt to keep him supine. 

“I would be careful, you just kinda fainted—” 

“Hey, screw you, I didn’t faint!” The guy shoved to his feet. He looked pale, a little shaken, but like a true New Yorker he was clearly more irritated at the inconvenience of it all. “Don’t touch strangers, Jesus.” 

Peter’s lips pressed into a thin line. So much for being a protagonist. Wasn’t this the part where everyone fawned over the hero? He actually caught someone mid-faint. It doesn’t get more cliche than that. 

New York, like always, was indifferent. The guy was gone in the crowd, lost to the sea of people that shoved Peter more and more aggressively the longer he stayed crouched on the ground. So he stood up, sighed, fished his phone out of his pocket and pressed the redial button. 

“Hey, sorry about that—” 

“Let me guess, another near-death experience?” Wilson interrupted. He sounded oddly tense. 

“No, just bad signal,” Peter tried to smile but he felt tired deep in his bones. He picked up the pace as he headed towards his office. For real this time. “Sorry, what were you saying about my inevitable levelling up?” 

“Email address,” Wilson said slowly, and he still sounded on edge. “But if that’s too much to ask, I get it. I was absolutely going to put you on the ad subscription services, cuz I get bonuses for that. Gotta get good numbers to keep the job, y’know? You can earn your points the old fashioned way, though—” 

“You got a pen, or is this going to be an exercise in memorization?” Peter snorted. “Don’t laugh—I’ve had it since highschool, okay?” 

Another bout of silence and Peter pulled his phone from his ear to check and make sure the line hadn’t actually dropped. 

“Is this going to be your spam account?” Wilson asked warily.

“Oh without a doubt,” Peter assured him and his smile started to feel a little more natural. He saw his building at the end of the block and glanced down at his watch. He was just barely going to be on time. “But you’ll still get your bonus, right? What’s it matter to you? However… I’m about to start my work day, meaning I’ll have to hang up for real this time. Maybe a minute tops until I’m in my building and that’s the deal on the table, take it or leave it.” 

He might or might not have started humming the Jeopardy theme. 

“Oh fuck off,” Wilson said, but Peter could hear the laugh he held back. “Fine, fine, but it better be really embarrassing.” 

Peter opened his mouth to give his email, but Wilson beat him to the punch again. 

“And you better check it. At least a little. Because I’m going to be sending you memes when I’m bored, and I want my comedic genius recognized.” 

Peter laughed as he pulled the building door open. He ducked under the air pressure strip that ruffled his hair and kept the cold from escaping. Technically Wilson missed his window, but Peter wasn’t quite that mean. 

“Alright, you ready or not?” Peter asked, pausing in front of the elevator. “It’s ‘captainquantum1945@yahoozle.com.’ No weird spellings, just—” 

“Spell it out anyway,” Wilson insisted. “Seduce me with that impatient tone, you naughty New York businessman.” 

Peter snorted, but he obliged. If he lowered his voice playfully, that was no one’s business but his own. Wilson let out an obnoxious porn-y moan. 

“Goddamn, how did you make a Yahoozle account sexy?” He sounded like he was pouting. “Were you a skater douche in highschool or in the chess club? Captain of the football team? Real big Quantum Leap fan? The whole vibe of this email could define mixed aesthetics.” 

Peter smiled down at the floor. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, eager to get on with his day but reluctant to leave his buddy in the elevator lobby. “Definitely chess club. Was that forty points?” 

“Bought and paid for, baby boy,” Wilson crowed. “How do ya want me?” 

“Later,” Peter ignored the obvious innuendo opportunity, and Wilson’s audible ‘awww.’ “I’ll call when I’m off work, alright? Talk to you later, Wilson.” 

“Bye-bye, Petey-pie!” 

Peter snapped his flip phone shut, still smiling like an idiot. He shoved it in one of the many pockets on his briefcase, careful to zip it in. Then he moved to press the elevator button. However, the doors opened before he could get the chance. 

He stared at Harry Osborn as he stepped out of the lift and regarded Peter with a stiff nod. 

He looked like he didn’t know what to do with Peter. Peter didn’t blame him one bit. His head was swimming in memories of Gwen hanging limp from his webbing, the horrible contorted face of Norman Osborn as _rigor mortis_ promised to keep the shape of the inhuman, hideous grin. Harry, bent over the body of his dead and bloodied father. Dead because Peter couldn’t control his strength. 

Harry winced. Then offered his hand to Peter as if he hadn’t just dumped a bucket of ice over his head. 

“Mr. Parker. Good to see you. It’s been a while. ” 

“Likewise,” Peter said weakly. “How, uh. How’ve you been?” 

  
  


* * *

Harry wasn’t a brave man. He knew it, came to terms with it a long time ago. He made little steps in the right direction in his attempts to be the person he was supposed to be, but it was slow going. Leading boardroom meetings was intimidating until it wasn’t. Meeting with potential investors and partnerships was nerve wracking until it wasn’t. The day he left teleprompts behind for his live interviews was a proud day indeed. But he still wasn’t the kind of man to stand up to a mugger. He wasn’t the kind of guy that told his security service to take the night off. He was never without a rigorous back up plan, at least three escape routes, and some way of defending himself from unknown threats. 

The point was, he wanted to become the kind of person that could have done something that night over ten years back.

 _And miles to go before I sleep_ , Harry thought bitterly. He stared at the nervous face of Peter Parker and briefly considered ditching his bravery goals altogether. Some time back he promised himself that if he ever ran into Peter again, he wouldn’t shy away from their overdue talk. It was a well intentioned promise that Harry currently thought was incredibly stupid. 

Peter was even more fidgety than Harry remembered. He looked to everything in the coffee shop possible that could reasonably hold his attention away from Harry himself. Thus far they’d made eye contact once. 

_Of course he hates you_ , Harry’s thoughts bit at him. _Why wouldn’t he? You stood there like an idiot while—_

“So,” Harry cleared his throat. “Elephant in the room time, Parker!”

He gave Peter what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Peter glanced at him and paled. 

“Elephant,” Peter echoed. Like he was going to spell it at their third grade spelling bee. 

“Yeah, the elephant,” Harry waved a hand and pulled his cappuccino closer. “You know, as if there was an actual elephant in the room that no one wanted to acknowledge—”

“I know what it means,” Peter cut him off sharply. He looked mortified at himself, then busied his mouth with his coffee instead. He sounded hoarse when he spoke again. “Sorry. I’m a little, uh...”

“It’s okay,” Harry did his best to keep the hurt off his face. It wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting Peter’s hatred. “I can’t, uh. ...I’m sorry, Pete.” 

Peter looked stricken. “...What? You’re _what?_ ” 

It was Harry’s turn to avoid eye contact. The cappuccino in front of him was served in a hand sculpted mug. One of those deep red clays that was gaining popularity. It fit his hand snugly. 

_Like the gun did,_ his thoughts built in crescendo. _Like it could have if you had taken the shhhhhhot, saved your own father—_

Harry pushed forward, ignoring the cold sweat that broke out on his forehead. 

“For… everything. You didn’t...” _You didn’t deserve a friend too cowardly to shoot the Green Goblin even when he’d just—_ He swallowed and his grip on the mug tightened. “I know you probably—” 

“No, you don’t know. You don’t know what it was like,” Peter snarled. “How hard I tried. I tried, Harry. I know you can’t see that, but I did everything I could and everything still went to hell. I was fighting alone and I lost. Okay?” 

Harry’s head snapped up and he stared wide eyed at his childhood best friend’s expression twisted by fury and fear. Peter was brave. He didn’t mince words. He didn’t back down even when he should have. He bit the hand that fed him and did it unapologetically when he knew it was the right thing to do. He came rushing into the burning building to pull Harry from his father’s corpse without a moment’s hesitation. He ignored the fire, ignored the remnants of the Green Goblin, the attacker that ruined Harry’s life in one fell swoop. Peter didn’t spare him a second glance and never forced Harry to come forward about it. 

Maybe if he had, they would have found and caught the Green Goblin. Maybe if he did, Gwen’s spirit could finally rest in peace—

_You ruin your own life, Harr-ee._

He clenched his jaw, fought off a shiver as the cold sweat worsened. He felt clammy. 

The fire faded from Peter’s eyes and Harry watched real time as regret settled in. 

“Wait, Harry...” Peter started but Harry shook his head. 

He stood and busied himself pulling on his suit jacket. “It’s alright. I shouldn’t expect any different.” 

Peter’s jaw dropped, but Harry left the shop before the man who was once his best friend could lay more barbs underneath his skin. 

* * *

Home. Sweet, roach, rat, and now Wade infested home. Was there anything more delightful than immediately ripping your pants off after a long day of work? Wade got it now; he _understood_. 

Don’t get Wade wrong: the office gig was sweet. Compared to the black mold ridden coffin he called his home, it was practically the Ritz. As he looked at the stained wallpaper around him, he definitely saw the appeal of office life. He even splurged on one of those coffee makers for his _mahogany_ desk that looked like it was made out of alien tech. You would think people would be alarmed by the notion of “flavor pods” but nope, it was the greatest thing since pre-sliced bread. Especially when they had pumpkin spice pods. That shit was on par with cocaine. (He might have had upwards of fourteen today. ...Hey. Don’t be judgy.)

It was even so nice that even a mere two days into the job he found himself frequently wondering if he would’ve been absolutely delighted by a regular suburban life. Maybe he missed his calling, right? Horrible childhood, tragic backstory, blah blah _whatever_. He could’ve just sucked it up, found himself a job as an accountant, gotten married, and died of cancer like Stan Lee intended. That’s what therapy was for, right? 

Weasel’s face popped up on his laptop about three minutes into Wade’s very own me time, and after some good natured bantering (only three warning shots fired, none of which clipped the computer), Wade found that he was practically trembling with excitement to get back out to the field. That and the pumpkin spice coffee. Okay, fine, _emotionally_ and _spiritually_ trembling due to impending violence. _Still_. 

As nice as throwing important looking documents into the mass shredder was, there was nothing quite as satisfying as the _click-cht_ loading full clip into a shiny new gun. He cooed at the new baby, holding it up for Weasel to see.

“Look! Do you know how long it took to find a muffler that matched the barrel color? It’s ash grey, not steel grey. A world of difference in blue undertones. Can you see the silvery finish?” Wade tilted the laptop enough so that the camera was focused on his shiny baby. He groaned in appreciation. “She’s so beautiful, I might _cry_.” 

“Okay, yeah, that’s a gun,” Weasel sounded distracted. He wasn’t giving Wade’s baby the attention she deserved, he knew it. So he tilted the camera back again and cradled the precious darling in his arms. Weasel piped up again. “Ugh, could you not? I’ve already seen your dick tonight. I don’t need to add to my list of traumas.” 

“Who’s fault is that?” Wade covered the handle of the gun as if he was cupping his hand over sensitive young years. “It’s like you never went to college! Knock first. Or maybe just call like a normal person.” 

“I did!” Weasel’s face finally turned to look at him. “Like… twice! Both times, I got a busy signal. Who the hell are you talking to, by the way? Al? Nate?” 

Wade’s exuberance was stalled out for a moment, remembering the brief call from Peter. Baby Boy didn’t seem quite the same after his work day. There was a weight to his voice that screamed exhaustion even when he was barely above a gruff murmur. It was, unfortunately, a very familiar tone to Wade’s ears. It was the ‘this has been fun, but you’re starting to get grating’ tone that most of Wade’s acquaintances had before unceremoniously ghosting him. He ignored the way he wanted to blink away a threatening sting, grateful ten times over for the return of his mask and suit. 

Nothing hid unladylike feelings like tight fitting leather. 

“Your mom, actually,” Wade lobbed it nice and easy to Weasel. “She didn’t say hi, though. Was too busy asking me to describe—” 

“Why are you like this?” Weasel shot him an unimpressed look, and Wade was at least smart enough to know a rhetorical question when he heard one. 

Not that that stopped his mouth. 

“Well, daddy was real mean to me, hung out with the wrong crowd in high school, forged my identity so I could join the US army and boy howdy let me tell you, those fellas don’t believe in knocking either—” 

“Tonight’s venue,” Weasel interrupted pointedly, “has to be as low tech in security as the past few. It seems like Weapon X lost their delicate touch, since they’re struggling with even low level security. Slowly worming their way up to the big boy leagues, right? My guess is that they’re avoiding any kind of serious attention.” 

“Oh I’ll give them all sorts of attention,” Wade snarled. He shoved off of the couch and stalked over to the folding poker table where his weapons were all laid out. He picked up Bea and Arthur each with the reverence such a classy weapons deserved before sliding them home in the holster strapped to his back. “We’ll go goddamn slow dancing.” 

Weasel was still talking about the location behind him, but it didn’t sound super important so Wade focused on packing his pouches with various bits and bobs. Incendiary ammo? Check. Industrial grade zipline wiring? Check. Strawberry toaster strudel with icing packets? Check. 

“Wade.” 

“What?” Wade whirled around, clenching an icing packet so hard it burst in his hand. A sticky white mess fell down his fingers. He stared at it. “Huh. That’s familiar.” 

“Gross,” Weasel deadpanned. “Did you get the address I just gave you?” 

“No, I wasn’t listening. Text it to me.” Wade pulled his mask up and tried to lick it off, but his glove tasted like blood and gunpowder. It clashed horribly with _creme de la toaster strudel_. He marched himself over to the sink, lamenting the loss of sugary goodness. 

“Are you sure you’re good for this?” Weasel’s tone sounded about as close as he ever got to concerned. In layman’s terms, he sounded suspicious. “I cannot emphasize enough that this is a recon mission, Wade. You don’t want Weapon X knowing you’re here or at all on to their tail. And by you, I mean me. Unlike you I can actually die—”

“Brag.” 

“—and don’t want that kind of nasty heat on me. Got it? Wade, do you got it? _Reconnaissance_. I’m just saying, you have that fidgety… ‘I’m going to murder everyone in the city block’ kind of look.” Weasel stared him down and spoke slowly. “You can’t do that this time. That’s why you have that muffler. Just observe, see if you can figure anything out about the agent they’re sending in—” 

“Lookie but no touchie, got it,” Wade waved a hand impatiently. “Address, Weasel. _Por favor_ and _gracias_.” 

“Wade listen to me. If you make noise, you’re on your own. Alone. One man show again. Clear?” Weasel’s words finally landed. 

Wade swallowed and looked down at the pouch full of explosive ammo. Of course he had no intention to do anything even remotely akin to recon, but… _alone_ sounded bad. He felt weirdly guilty. It made his nose itch. He scratched over his mask and nodded at Weasel. 

“Fine. Fine. No happy-shooty-fun-times. Recon. Fine, got it.” Wade sighed. Weasel looked relieved and Wade made up his mind that he would really give recon his maximum effort. Which was boring and stupid, but so was doing this stuff alone. He pitched his voice at the most annoying whine he could manage. Horrible English accent included. “Please sir, could I have the address now?”

He watched Weasel shudder, but he also saw the man fighting off a grin as he rattled the location out to Wade. Wade scribbled it down on a post-it note shaped like a balloon. He used his favorite glittery red gel pen and everything. He wiggled it, shaking it like a polaroid baby, until the ink was dry enough for him to fold the piece and slip it into his chest pocket. 

“ _Some_ shooting is fine,” Weasel relented. Wade whooped. “We don’t need the guy alive after we see what he was going to steal. But do not interrupt him—”

“Or her,” Wade interjected helpfully. Then, thoughtfully, “or them. Or zem.” 

“—until you’re sure that Weapon X is no longer in contact. Ideally a few days from now.” Weasel bulldozed onwards like the insensitive bastard he was. “Keep your distance. If you have to shoot, use that muffler and hightail it out of there.”

“You _were_ paying attention!” Wade pressed a gloved hand to his masked cheek. “Oh, Mr. _Jack Hammer_ , I don’t know what to _say—_ ” 

Weasel scowled and hung up. 

It was all the push Wade needed to get out the door and stalking the back streets like he never left. Which, while a badass sentiment, was blatantly incorrect. Not only did Wade take a brief sabbatical from the Murder for Money life in order to get balls deep in corporate drone life, he wasn’t exactly a New York City regular prior to that. It was a hectic place full of amazing tacos and some truly world class tourist bait—some high grade shit, really. He took in a deep breath of the fresh night air and gagged on the smell of rancid piss. Ah, yeah. That would be why. 

He coughed, sputtering and grousing to himself as he pulled his weight up onto a fire escape. Traveling by rooftop was the best way to make sure he didn’t run into anyone, he figured. Less foot traffic. Mind you, not a total absence of it either. There were more than a couple squads of youths that stared at him with big wide eyes as he walked by. Somehow, they all smelled like poorly hidden weed and even worse decisions. He called out some life tips as he passed each bunch. 

“Don’t get the joint too wet, or it won’t light up! Lookin’ at you, Slobber Joe.” 

“Remember to always check the expiration date on your condoms! And make sure the outline isn’t _that_ obvious in your pants pocket. It’s tacky.” 

“Margarita mix isn’t actually alcoholic, but points for style!” 

None of them seemed very appreciative, but by the time his venue of the night was in sight Wade was in a terrific mood. The children are the future or something like that. There was no low-hanging fruit like easily embarrassed teenagers. 

Wade slid down a rusty ladder and landed light on the balls of his feet. (Hah. _Balls._ ) He took a moment to survey the building in front of him. 

The further away you got from the titular skyline of the city, the more buildings stopped having impressive designs and just looked old. This one was no exception. Old copper pipes ran up and down the brick walls and rattling air conditioning units hung out from tiny window ledges. The back of the building was lined with all sorts of dumpsters, each labelled with different colors and symbols. He frowned and pulled out his phone, snapping pictures to send to Weasel later. 

He ran a hand lightly over the metal handle of the back door, testing to see if there was any resistance. Unsurprisingly, it was unlocked. Wade scoffed quietly. This would barely count as reconnaissance at this rate. He opened the door wide enough that he could slip his bulk inside the dark corridor. 

Cardboard boxes lined the halls from the floor to the ceiling. Every so often, a metal sign declared a new section of goods but the boxes were otherwise identical. Unlabeled. Wade’s fingers twitched, aching to swap the signs but Weasel’s distressed face discouraged the notion. He grit his teeth, tapped his fingers against his thigh instead and kept walking. The rhythm solidified slowly until he nodded his head along with it, steps falling into sync. 

He turned the corner and saw a bunch of computers that were messily set up anywhere there was space. On top of empty boxes, cheap tables, some on the floor even. He moved the mouse on each, waiting until… there it was. He grinned under his mask. The screen in front of him lit up, dialogue box flashing and asking if the user was sure they wanted to shut down without saving. Jackpot. 

“Why no, I think I need to look at it some more,” Wade whispered gleefully. “ _I’m in._ ” 

He barely scrolled down what looked like a lethally boring spreadsheet when he heard a door close near the front of the facility. He looked to his left, then his right. He spotted a big empty box, easily the size of a small person and had an epiphany. He twisted the cardboard up into the air and brought it down over the lit up laptop to hide the light without closing it or powering down. 

He clapped a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from letting out a delighted noise, instead bodily hauling ass over behind one of the many stacks of boxes wrapped in the creepy warehouse-after-hours shadows. Footsteps steadily grew louder and louder and Wade fought the urge to bounce. He needed to channel his energy somewhere, though, so he squeezed his eyes shut and started going song by song through Queen’s discography. He kept his hand over his mouth, careful to make sure he didn’t slip into singing out loud, and growing irrationally angry at the intruder for not timing their footsteps along with the chorus of Bohemian Rhapsody. 

The footsteps stopped. There was a click, then the lights in the room flickered on. 

_About time_ , Wade thought. He pressed an imaginary pause button in front of him and the Queen in his head courteously let him have the space again. Slowly, Wade peeked the top of his head around the corner of the boxes. The intruder was staring directly back at him. 

Well, that was unexpected. 

“Hi,” Wade said lamely.

“Hi,” the guy replied. He had that vague unfocused look of someone who was coming down from a night of coke and strippers. Like he was remembering the world wasn’t actually neon and glittery. Wade felt for him. Been there done that. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Deadpool,” Wade supplied. “Having a good evening?” 

“Yeah, nice to uh... I’m… I’m Ethan.” Intruder Ethan frowned even as he nodded. “I’m… Yeah, I think so. Just gotta… pick something up.” 

Wade stepped out from behind the boxes. Intruder Ethan stared at him blankly. Either not noticing the multitude of weapons, or not caring. Wade bet on the latter. This guy was high as a kite. 

“Say, Ethan. I’m a curious guy: just how did you know I was here? I think I hid pretty well,” he gestured to the box tower behind him. “Was I that obvious?” 

Intruder Ethan shrugged. Wade waited for him to continue, but no explanation seemed to be on the way. 

“That’s, uh. Do you wanna elaborate?” Wade tried. If he was dealing with some kind of precognition, that was bad. That was real bad. Weasel’s write up didn’t say anything about Weapon X sending mutants. He looked into precognition back when he was in his big Spider-Man phase, but he didn’t exactly look up how to counter it. Wade was all kinds of bastard, but not fight-or-kill the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man kind of bastard. 

Besides: never meet your heroes. 

Intruder Ethan’s glazed over eyes flicked from Wade to the tower of boxes. Wade watched with narrowed eyes as the guy walked up to the tower and pushed. He didn’t even hesitate, nor did he seem bothered by the cacophony of _staples_ of all things, spilling out onto the polished concrete. Wade’s jaw must have hit the floor, eyes going wide as the alarms started sounding all around them because _duh_. Intruder Ethan, however, looked mildly surprised. 

“Oh. That’s loud,” he stated. 

“Yeah, Ethan, it sure is!” Wade couldn’t help the irritation in his voice. “Why the hell did you do that? How high are you—?” 

“I’m not high,” Ethan said, but that wasn’t what surprised Wade. What surprised him was the pistol Ethan pointed at his chest with impressive accuracy for someone who was still carefully gathering up boxes of _staples_. 

“Wha— Why are— What the _fuck_ is going on?” Wade sputtered. He didn’t bother raising his hands. Instead he pulled his own gun, muffler and all, and started cataloguing ways to discreetly dispose of a body in New York fucking City. He swore. 

“You’re going to stop me,” Ethan made it sound so obvious. 

“Wasn’t the plan, tee-bee-aych!” Wade scowled. “I was going to let you do your thing, you were going to let me do my thing, and we were going to part as unlikely friends—” 

Ethan paused. He actually pivoted to look at Deadpool. He stood up straight, dropped the gun to his side, and walked closer. He tilted his head to the side, unbothered by the muffled pistol nearly touching his chin. His eyes somehow found Wade’s through the mask and it sent chills down Wade’s spine. A lucky guess, most likely, but it felt like good ol’ Professor X had started taking up pick-up-artistry. The way Ethan looked him over, it was like he was categorizing different cuts of meat, evaluating the worth, labeling them, and moving on. 

“Oh, okay.” Ethan tucked his gun back in his pocket. 

“ _What?_ ” Wade’s voice was _not_ squawky. _Your_ voice was squawky. _Shut up._

“I believe you.” With a shrug of his shoulders, that was apparently the end of it for Ethan. He finally selected a box of staples, tucked them into his pocket, and moved to leave the way he came. 

The front door. Which was probably surrounded by cops by now. 

“Whoa, hey, Ethan. Have you ever stolen anything before? You can’t just waltz out the front door,” Wade gestured his pistol up at the ceiling, indicating the alarm. “Cuz of the five-oh, you get me? You’re gonna get busted. Over—Over staples.” 

He stared at the man’s pocket. He couldn’t help it. Staples? _Staples?_

“Is that at least a box of drugs? Those aren’t actually staples, right?” Wade pleaded. “I’ll even accept ‘good old fashioned meth.’” 

Intruder Ethan just shrugged again, not once pausing his stride towards the exit. Sirens and flashing lights already spelled out the guy’s capture, and Wade had specific orders to lay low. Not be seen. And here was fucking _Ethan_ , with his fucking goddamn shitting _staples_. 

Wade hissed, pressed his back to a wall and peered around it to watch as Ethan finally made it to the exit. Wade clicked the safety off his new baby, already apologizing to Weasel under his breath as he aimed at the back of Ethan’s head. 

Red and blue illuminated Ethan’s face in ghastly shades with too-sharp shadows. Wade’s finger found the trigger and he was a breath away from squeezing when something changed. Ethan’s hands flew up and he screamed. Full on panicked. It was like the dull haze lifted entirely and he found himself suddenly sober. Wade slowly lowered the gun as cops filed in to catch their freaking out target. He didn’t even resist arrest, just babbled about how he wanted a lawyer, how it was just like the cops to frame him, and demanding to know what he was doing here. 

Wade felt a migraine coming on. He rubbed against his temple and tucked his gun away. Time to make his exit before the cops made their sweep. 

He moved as quickly as he could through the maze of boxes while still avoiding the line of sight of the security cameras. He stopped to retrieve his laptop prize and carefully balanced it against his hip. At least someone would manage to do some successful, _dignified_ , thievery tonight. He left the way he came, and locked the door behind him. 

Wade’s fingers tapped along to the rhythm of Somebody to Love along the side of the laptop as he climbed the fire escape again. He missed something tonight. He must have. That sort of thing didn’t just happen. He wasn’t even sure what happened. What was he going to tell Weasel? 

He allowed himself to hum along to the tune as he hopped from fire-escape to adjacent fire-escape. The loud clang of his weight against the creaking metal timed nicely with Freddy’s voice ringing clear in his head, beautifully distracting from his stress. 

Nearly distracted enough to miss a flash of red. Wade had his gun pulled and fired off at the flash before he fully comprehended what he was looking at. 

Which was a pissed off looking Spider-Man. 

Wade gasped and dropped the laptop off the side of the fire-escape. He dove for it, curled around it protectively, and let his shoulder take the brunt of the fall instead. A horrible wet crunch echoed in the alley and Wade groaned. 

“Fancy meeting a guy like you here,” he wheezed, trying and failing miserably to sound casual. He raised his not super-record-breakingly shattered arm and waggled his fingers at the superhero. “Hey Spidey-dude. Come here often?” 

Spider-Man stayed perched where he was, a foot to the left of a bullet hole in the side of a brick building. Wade winced. 

“...Would you believe me if I said I just had a very weird night? Stress shooting is a real thing, y’know—”

There was a tiny bit of motion as warning and Wade rolled out of the way of the plume of webbing that latched on to where he was laying just a moment before. In looking down at it in fanboyish awe, he realized belatedly that he’d closed the laptop during the fall. 

“Aw, fuck,” Wade’s head tipped back and he rolled his healing shoulder. It snapped, crackled, and popped in response. 

Spider-Man stared him down.

“Yeah, _busted_ ,” Spider-Man said. To him. Spider-Man was speaking to him and Wade wanted so badly to be over the moon about it. “I’ll admit, it was pretty clever, though. Having some petty theft as a distraction while you went for the real goods.” 

“While I what?” Wade blinked. “What? No. No, no, _no_. That was _not_ my doing—” 

“Deadpool, right?” Spider-Man interrupted. “You work for hire. I don’t care who hired you, _you_ carried it out. _Literally_.” 

Wade’s fingers flexed around the laptop and he took a step back. He swallowed around a dry throat and tried to count his options. They looked grim. 

“You should stay far, far away from this, Spidey,” Wade warned, voice low. “This isn’t your kind of gig. Trust me.” 

“See that’s what has me so curious. I didn’t think it was yours either,” Spider-Man jumped off the wall and flipped mid air before absolutely nailing a superhero landing in the alleyway. Silent as anything. “No kills, no bounties involved—” 

“Holy _fuck_ that was hot,” Wade blurted. 

The webheaded-wonder stilled at that, eye lenses going wide as saucers. “...What?”

“Oh my god, they really are that expressive?” Wade practically wheezed. “Fuck! Why couldn’t you stumble into some other nefarious doing? I swore I wouldn’t make a scene, but here you are, cute as a bug—” 

Spider-Man shook his head clear and started walking towards Deadpool. 

“—not even a little bit afraid of me, which, under any other circumstances I would be so honored. You gotta believe me,” Wade fumbled and pulled out his baby, pointing it at Spider-Man’s head. “But you really should be. Didn’t you read the dossier? Do all your arachna-homework? And you think dear ol’ Dee Pee is just gonna bend over and let you fuck this mission?” 

Red gloved hands stretched up into the air lazily and Spider-Man’s eyes narrowed again. He wasn’t subtle about shifting into a more defensive stance. “Ho, don’t do it.” 

Wade let out a near hysterical laugh. “Well now I _hafta!_ ” 

“Oh my _god_.”

Wade cackled and shot at his hero’s knee, genuinely not sure if he was delighted or frustrated when Spidey dodged with ease and grace. There was that precognition. _Alright, alright, Wade. Focus. How do you land a hit on a guy who’s faster than you—_

Spider-Man caught his moving weight on the edge of a dumpster, pushed himself up into the air, and flung a web at the roof of the adjacent building to give himself more height as he ran-crawled perpendicular to the ground faster than Wade could hope to land a bullet. 

_—stronger than you—_

Wade watched, star struck, as Spidey yanked the whole fire-escape from the side of the building. Nuts and bolts rained down on the pavement as the metal cage monstrosity caved in on the alley. Cutting off Wade’s escape. 

_—and knows when danger is coming his way?_

He ducked another stream of webbing. “You know, you could buy a guy dinner before shooting your sticky white gunk at him. I guess you take the more skeezy interpretation of ‘friendly,’ huh?” 

“I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression. There’s a reason I went with Spider-Man instead of Friendly Neighborhood Bicycle,” Spider-Man quipped back easily. “Cuz—”

“Everyone’s had a ride, yeah, _yeah_ , I know the joke,” Wade snapped irritably. “But here I am, covered in your gunk, and without even having been swung Tarzan style into the night as we stare lovingly into each other’s eye holes. I feel _cheated_.” 

“Well, if you would just stay still—” 

No chance of that, Wade thought as he zig-zagged towards the other side of the alley, only barely escaping each batch of gooey webbing. Some of it caught on his boot and he twisted as he fell, gun aimed at his spandex menace. Before he even put his finger on the trigger, Spidey was well out of the way. 

Well, now. That could work, couldn’t it? 

Wade followed Spidey’s trajectory patiently, pointing the muzzle under him when Wade wanted him higher, or further to the left. Until Spidey was a little too far for his webbing to shoot so directly. The next batch of it arched in the air lazily, and Wade had more than enough time to shoot the heel of his boot free and roll to the side. 

Interestingly enough, Spider-Man still flinched. 

“Oh, ho _ho!_ ” Wade brightened, shot at the ground again. The blast rang through the alleyway, echoing menacingly. There was no mistaking it this time, Spidey’s eyes narrowed at the sound. So Wade did what Deadpool does best. He reached for his explosive ammo and started rattling off rounds haphazardly. One landed square into the side of a metal dumpster and the crunching sound was truly, spectacularly godawful. “Loud stuff really gets your goat, doesn’t it? Nothing to sense coming there. Good to know. Won’t bother with guns next time, I’ll just bring an airhorn.” 

“That’s… so tacky,” Spider-Man seethed. “Besides—” 

Wade didn’t wait to hear what awesome, clever, hero-ish thing Spider-Man had to say. He shot another four bullets, waiting for the explosions to reach their crescendo before he took off towards the end of the alleyway. 

He nearly made it, too. He would’ve, if not for that meddling Spider-Man. 

Webbing flew through the air and Wade twisted out of its reach. That’s where he made his mistake—Spider-Man wasn’t aiming at him. Instead the sticky threads latched solidly on to the laptop. Wade had the wherewithal to at least make an offended sound as his hard-won prize was ripped free from his grip. 

“Like candy from a very loud baby,” Spider-Man snickered from where he was sitting on the edge of the rooftop to Wade’s left. Or at least, it sounded like he was. Wade couldn’t see his face, but he was pretty sure. The laptop wiggled at him mercilessly from Spider-Man’s fingertips. “So what’s this? Why do you need it so badly?” 

“I don’t _know_ ,” Wade huffed. He scowled under his mask. “But I’m going to need it back.” 

“Tell you what,” Spider-Man rested a cheek in one palm and kicked his legs back and forth. “I’ll give it back once you do your time. If you put the gun down and surrender quietly.” 

Wade stared up at the hero and it never felt more literal how low Deadpool was in comparison to someone like Spider-Man. Even confronted with a notoriously violent mercenary, here he was offering a peaceful way out. He didn’t have anything aimed at Wade, either. Not that the spindley little guy couldn’t bench press a Jamba Juice if it came down to it, but still. It was a genuine offer of peace. 

New York didn’t deserve this kind of hero. This was the kind of hero that shouldn’t ever have to deal with something as ugly as Weapon X. Wade’s eyes rested on the laptop in Spidey’s grip.

He sighed. “Sorry. No deal.” 

Spider-Man’s eyes went wide again, this time _late_ in reaction to Wade’s shot. But that made sense, since the explosive round wasn’t aimed at the webslinger. Just the laptop. 

It shattered in the air, shrapnel catching along Spider-Man’s costume, explosion accompanied with the hero’s surprised yelp. He lost his footing and fell from the rooftop, but Wade didn’t stick around long enough to see the fallout. He booked it as fast as he could away from the scene. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to sun, traffy, Hanuko, Emi, Rii, and of course, El and Joe. You guys are the best ever. You're the sole reason I'm interpreted as even moderately comprehensible.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: MJ is a hybrid of little bits and pieces from her various iterations. Picture her however you please, but know I'm gonna take some inspiration from MCU's Michelle as well as comics MJ.

Here’s the thing: it shouldn’t be hard to find a six-foot-something mercenary that was armed to the teeth and clad in red leather. Everything Peter dug up on Deadpool confirmed this, much to his frustration. Deadpool wasn’t exactly known for his discretion. 

What he _was_ known for included but was not limited to: a love of Mexican food, being strangely picky about the jobs he took, his disfigurement, carrying assorted Hello Kitty and Golden Girls themed paraphernalia, talking constantly, and of course, _being unkillable_. 

Not that he was looking to kill anyone. Spider-Man didn’t kill, so that particular talent wasn’t too much of a cramp in Peter’s style. However, if his prior encounter with Deadpool told Peter anything, it was that the rumors of Deadpool’s indifference to serious injury were accurate. This presented a unique problem: if Deadpool were to find himself in a literal bind, he was perfectly comfortable sawing off a hand (what the fuck _what the fuck_ ) to get free. That meant that the guy was near impossible to detain.

Not _impossible_ , impossible, though. 

At least he hoped not. 

That would suck. 

Peter decided to ignore casefiles about Deadpool breaking out of super-max. 

He chewed the inside of his cheek as he scaled the side of the Chrysler Building. City lights flickered around and below him as he pushed onward, upward, until the noise started to fade. One of the sculpted spikes made for a perfect ledge to _thwip_ some webbing. He grabbed the thin line and let go of the glassy surface of the building. His legs tucked under him, then stretched out to push his momentum. Again and again, swinging back and forth far above the evening gridlock until he had enough speed to launch himself up into the air and land atop the outward spike. He let the webbing loose to sway in the evening air and sunk down to a recline with his back against the first of the seven inward curving arches leading up to the infamous point. 

Peter let out a tired breath and pulled his burner phone out. The little screen told him it was barely past midnight, which meant it was still far too early for Wilson’s shift to begin. There were plenty of batch emails from Oscorp, though. Reminders of upcoming performance reviews, self evaluations, and more hype pieces for the Winter Formal that put a bitter taste on Peter’s tongue. 

The image of Harry’s cold detachment flooded his mind as if projected on to his lenses themselves. Ten years passed since that night but Peter was a fool to think anything changed. They didn’t even make it ten minutes into sitting down before, _‘I can’t, I’m sorry Pete.’_

A finalization of _‘I can’t do this.’_ Or _‘I can’t talk to you.’_ Or _‘I can’t forgive you.’_ Take your pick. 

_The expression was a perfect mirror of a much, much younger Harry._

_Soot all over his face, the Osborn manor burning down to ash behind him, but his eyes locked on Peter. His hand still trembled around the gun he held, just a few degrees too low to be officially aiming at Peter, but high enough to get the point across._

Peter’s jaw clenched and he squeezed his eyes closed as he tried to ignore the way he felt like his heart plummeted down to the streets below.

 _‘Peter… You… It was you…?’_ _Young Harry accused._

Peter was no better ten years ago than he was a week ago. 

_‘Peter, how could you…?’_

Young Peter ran and the memory faded, the glow of the Osborn fire melting into the glow of the city. 

_‘It’s alright,’ Harry said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘I shouldn’t expect any different.’_

Peter looked over the side of the building, half curious to know if he could actually see where his heart _splat_ on the pavements below, adding another ugly pockmark to the already blood stained streets of his city. 

No such luck. It would have to remain a metaphor. 

Harry’s impromptu reunion was only partially to blame for Peter’s antsiness. The run-in with Crosswalk Guy weighed heavily on his mind. It didn’t take much to look the guy up; his information was all over LinkedIn, Facebook… You name it. As far as Peter could tell, Crosswalk Guy was an average single bachelor in New York City. 

Just to be certain of it, he sent his findings over to Jessica Jones along with her service fee to track the guy down and build a profile for him. Her findings were equally disappointing. (“Aside from some weird porn, he’s clean. Doesn’t own any weapons, and isn’t smart enough to make his own. Why am I looking into this idiot?”) 

His behavior at the crosswalk didn’t exactly make history. Maybe it was a little similar to someone having a dissociative episode, but even then, it was mild. Which didn’t add up to why Peter’s spidey senses had screamed at him while tailing the guy. 

Of his own powers, Peter understood his spidey sense the least. Or rather, he couldn’t do much experimentation on it. Mostly for lack of ideas on how to do so. How exactly was he supposed to build a control group of safe events versus planned encounters with danger while retaining any kind of integrity to the data? He was inseparable from the ability. There was no turning it off—no matter how badly he wished he could, sometimes. 

After years of interacting with other heros, including Professor X and his crew of super kiddos, he learned that the power was usually referred to as precognition. He didn’t mention it at the time, but he disagreed. Maybe the official name for it was better than what he came up with when he was fifteen, sure, but it wasn’t precognition. It was just… _cognition_. 

It was more like a deep awareness of what was happening right that moment. Instinct was a better comparison, he thought. Spidey senses often came tied with actions (reactions, technically) that Peter had little to no control over. While it worked towards his own self preservation in giving him fighting skill despite being an untrained fighter, spidey sense required extreme caution. One misplaced punch, or using just a little too much strength… 

Peter shook his head and dismissed the thought. He clenched and unclenched his fists where they lay in his lap. 

At the moment, that particular recurring problem didn’t matter in its usual way. The way his spidey sense acted up around Crosswalk Guy, it should have meant that the guy was actively causing harm, either in the middle of an activity that needed Spider-Man’s attention, or about to lash out in the way that pulled that hair-trigger reaction that came with the ability. Trigger that unskilled instinct that allowed Spider-Man to take down far bigger, far stronger villains. 

Crosswalk Guy did neither. He was only _walking_. 

If it was really that simple, that meant that his spidey senses identified an innocent person as a threat worth monitoring. More alarmingly, it meant his spidey sense—the part of his transformation that, if he was honest, was fully responsible for keeping him alive over the years—was occasionally _dead wrong_. With the sheer amount of force that came with being Spider-Man, a falsely triggered instinct could result in a body count. 

In all his years, his spidey senses never failed him like that before. He had to be missing something. _Had_ to be. 

As he sat there mulling it over, he caught his second wind. His booted foot tapped against the flat of the horizontal spike on which he sat, along with a rhythm he neither recognized nor created intentionally. The city down below glowed as bright as ever. The flurry of lights and sounds coaxed the corners of his lips upwards and eased the tension from his shoulders. It always, always did. 

Peter stretched out his limbs and bounced back up to his feet. He knew having his hands on his hips was such a superhero cliche, but it wasn’t like he built the hidden pockets in his suit to be roomy enough for his usual slouch. Hands-on-hips was about the only casual way to survey the city even if he caught second hand embarrassment for himself everytime he realized he was doing it again. 

No flashing red and blue, no sirens, no screams, and all quiet on the western front from his spidey senses. Peter puffed out an irritated breath. He supposed he could cut his patrol _three hours_ short, if nothing needed his attention. He probably should be doing some food delivery or walking some dogs. That would be a responsible way to spend his time, especially after his last grocery bill. Peter fought off a pout. Electricity sparked and hopped around just under his skin. He could feel it fighting to push back into his brain and illuminate those memories again. His fingers twitched at his side as he fought the urge to start _thwipping_ his way home. His eyes scanned desperately and—

 _There_. Movement in an alleyway, high up on a fire escape. That was worth checking out, right? Right. 

(It was _something_ , and the surge threatening to curl around his heart wasn’t picky.) 

Spider-Man’s lenses took the lead from his pupils and widened to magnify his vision as he took a running leap off the Chrysler building. For a split second, the power behind his leap stalled out and he felt the heartbeat of the city sync with his own. There above it all, one arm outstretched to throw webbing towards the building in front of him, nothing beneath him but lights, dull chatter, and cars threatening to rush up to meet him. Just as he started to lose altitude, his webbing ran taut. He grinned under his mask and felt his problems fall to the city below as he picked up speed again. 

The fire in his lungs and arms consumed the residual untamed wilds in his mind. Muscle memory guided him and a laugh punched out of his gut as he soared. Speed carried him into flips and spins, his limbs sprawling out behind him like a swimmer pushing through an unseen tide, steadied by the thinnest strands of white. 

He tumbled into a somersault then swan dived towards the flat of the lower rooftops. Webbing _thwipped_ and released, _thwipped_ and released, as he took a leisurely circle around the city block. He paused to land on the top of a streetlight, spun on the flat of his foot, and blew a kiss to a tourist, before he was in the air again. Scattered laughter and a few greetings touched the periphery of his hearing, just weakly filtered through the sounds of the city. 

The spike in his spidey senses felt triumphant, a confirmation that Spider-Man was needed. Peter Parker could wait a little longer. He let himself revel in the feeling, closed his eyes, and followed where it thrummed stronger, swinging around the buildings with his spidey sense as his compass. He felt like he was trying to scry for the threat, using himself as the weighted pendant. 

When the buzz of it was strong enough he dropped speed and height rapidly. His stomach leapt up into his throat as he fell and his spidey senses surged in combination with the existing threat. These days, all it took was one look at the green awning lit up under the glow of the corner store’s name. He reached out like he hoped to grab the building with both hands and threw webbing to the left and right, crossing the webbing in front of him. The muscles in his arms constricted and he relished the burn of it as he slingshotted himself to land just above the glowing name. His fingertips stuck to the old brick and he found purchase easily. 

After he allowed himself a moment to get his bearings, he let his spidey sense guide him towards the slim alleyway between the deli and a closed down bank. An alley that was—as far as he could tell—empty. He frowned and tilted his head. Surely it wasn’t another false trigger. Not so quickly after Crosswalk Guy. He pushed off the brick of the corner store and landed silently on the top of the bank. He followed the line of the building down the alleyway, but his spidey senses started to dull. 

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “Hot and cold. I can work with that.” 

He moved back to where he faced the door of the corner store head on. The front doors opened and Spider-Man’s eyes landed on the older lady exiting. She had a single plastic bag slung into the crook of her elbow and looked somewhere near her nine _thousandth_ birthday. Frail seemed generous. 

Just like with Crosswalk Guy, his spidey senses loosed themselves brutally on his nervous system. His lenses twitched wider and slimmer as Peter himself struggled to get a grip on himself. He took a step back when she moved towards the alley, letting the sensation lessen even at the cost of losing the line of sight. He wobbled and clutched at his head, spidey sense screaming loud enough to rattle his bones. He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t follow her like this. Couldn’t even observe her if he couldn’t wrestle control back from whatever corner of his subconscious mind decided that a little old granny was the next Sinister Six. 

It was a wrestling match he was losing. He whined and took another step back, but his back hit something solid. He spun around to face whatever he hit, and froze. 

Deadpool stared down at him. 

Spider-Man’s lenses went wide and his spidey senses lulled for a precious moment. He didn’t waste it. 

His hand snapped out and grabbed the mercenary by the wrist— _right hand dominant,_ Peter remembered from his reading—and he threw all his weight into the move. His legs swung up over broad shoulders and he clenched his thighs as hard as he could around Deadpool’s neck. Whatever the man said was lost to a grunt as Spider-Man shot a web at the rooftop and yanked as hard as he could. Like a broken down rodeo bull ride and amateur matador, Spider-Man rode Deadpool’s chest until his back hit the rooftop.

“ _Whoa_ , hey—!” 

_Unkillable, indifferent to self injury, very armed_ , his instincts reminded him, pulling from the stacks of memory between impulse after impulse to _move_. He detached the line of webbing and reached for the mechanism right next to the regular release. A rapidly inflating stream of webbing goo spread out on the rooftop beside them and he made to roll them both over so that Deadpool was glued in place. 

It was pretty difficult to saw off limbs if you couldn’t move well enough to reach for anything _at all_ , never mind a blade to saw through body parts. Like a nice little pile of Deadpool containment sludge! It was a brilliant plan, in Peter’s humble opinion. Would have worked spectacularly.

At least it would have, if Deadpool hadn’t wriggled an arm free to reach out alarmingly close to Spider-Man’s crotch. The problem was that the movement didn’t set off his spidey senses—did the mercenary not intend to hurt him?—so he caught sight of the leather gloved hand only when its fingers _snapped_ to get his attention. 

He must have set a record for jump height from a flat surface, along with another for world’s weirdest sound as something vaguely related to a yelp released without his permission from the back of his throat. 

He landed flat on his ass and stared down at his own thighs, trying to figure out what exactly Deadpool had done. 

“Hi, Webs,” Deadpool pushed to his feet and meticulously dusted himself off. From where Peter was sprawled, Deadpool was intimidatingly large. Or it would have been intimidating if Peter hadn’t long since learned to channel intimidation into outrage. His lenses narrowed as the mercenary waved at him. “So great to run into you, _literally_. How are things? Living the spidey-dream? Spidey-wife and spidey-kids? Good, good. Oh, me? How sweet of you to ask! I’m doing just swell.” 

Deadpool moved to side-step him and Spider-Man honest-to-god growled. He reached out and grabbed an ankle. _Thwip —_webbed to the roof. 

It wasn’t what he wanted, but it would do for now. 

Spider-Man jumped up to his feet again and watched as Deadpool’s head tipped back to let out a groan as if _he_ were the one being inconvenienced. 

“Look, I’ve been polite! Left everything alone! I haven’t even unalived anyone! That’s your whole _em-oh_ , right? Along with the saves-cats-from-trees vibe you have going.” He waved a gloved hand. “No offense, _bee-tee-dubs._ But you do have _‘friendly’_ in your title. It’s kinda cute, actually—” 

“That’s because I _am_ friendly,” Spider-Man snapped and jabbed a finger at Deadpool’s chest.

Deadpool’s mask was oddly expressive. His eyes flicked down to Spider-Man’s finger, then back to his mask. “Uhm…”

“ _Usually_ ,” Spider-Man groused. “Can’t say I’m fond of being shot at. Totally unnecessary.” 

“Oh, boy! I have great news for you, then!” Deadpool visibly brightened and pulled out a serrated hunting knife as large as Peter’s forearm. Spider-Man sighed, stumbled back a step, lenses going wide again in preparation for close quarters grappling. 

“Stabbing this time? Really?” he quipped as he lowered his center of gravity while he simultaneously gave the mercenary his best Spider-Man Is Disappointed In You look. “At least there’s some variation, I guess. Alternatively, you could save me some grief and just surrender. I would even settle for you leaving the city—” 

Deadpool made a wounded sound that caught him off guard. He squinted. 

“Well, fuck _me_. We have one rough meeting and suddenly you’ve shot down all our potential? We could have been besties, Spidey. I bought bracelets!” Deadpool waved the knife around, gesturing wildly as he spoke. Spider-Man’s gaze never left the blade and he waited patiently for a moment to web it away from the mercenary’s grip. “Besides, you didn’t even let me explain. I didn’t shoot at _you_.” 

The knife pointed away from where it was clutched in Deadpool’s hand, perched on a jutted out hip. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” said Spider-Man. “What with the shooting at me.”

“It did!” Deadpool chirped brightly. “Fooled you, I mean. Not shot at you. That’s what I keep saying. I didn’t shoot at _you_ , I shot at the _laptop_ . Big difference. My laptop, really, since I was the one that worked very hard to steal it fair and square. It could have had very important things on it, but no, you had to go _thwapping —_”

“ _Thwip.”_

“—yeah, that, _whatever_. Not going to stab you either, not that you’re going to listen to me now I bet.” Deadpool seemed perfectly content to talk to himself as he bent over to use the serrated segment of his knife to start sawing away at the webbing. Spider-Man blinked. That certainly explained the lack of warning from his spidey sense. “No one listens to me. I’m like a modern day Cassandra, but hotter. Cassandra wishes she could host a gun show like this—hah! Maybe I should flex more. Would you like me better if I was just eye candy, Webs? Be honest.” 

Spider-Man’s lenses were fixed on where the mercenary was determinedly sawing at webbing that Peter knew damn well wasn’t going to give any for another hour at least. “I… What? No. No bantering!” 

He shook his head and crowded into Deadpool’s space, forcing him upright. True to his word, Deadpool held the knife far out of imminent stabbing range. It was oddly courteous. 

“I want to know who hired you, why they hired you, and what they hired you to do,” he demanded. “How many more robberies are on the way? How many escaped noticed? What is it that’s happening to these people when you, well, it’s not mind control, but it’s _something —_”

“Holy shit! Easy there, cowboy.” Deadpool was laughing at him. Spider-Man’s lenses narrowed further. “I told you before and I’m telling you again, I’m not working for hire. I’m not behind the robberies. I’m here to _stop_ them.” 

There was a long pause.

Deadpool snickered. “Yeah, I _know_ , right? It’s true, though. So how do I get you to make like Naruto and _believe it?_ ”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Spider-Man shrugged exaggeratedly and gestured towards the alleyway. “Maybe let the little old lady go?” 

Spidey sense picked the worst times to act up by its nature, but it was like the guy he’d run into on the crosswalk. It screamed at him in the worst kind of way, stronger than Peter ever felt. He tried to keep himself steady but he was about to shiver out of his skin, but there was no way he was going to crumple into a heap like he wanted while Deadpool was right there. 

“—can you hear me? Hey, Webs! Webbey. Spidey-babe. Friendly neighborhood spandex fetishist—” 

“That’s rich coming from the guy head-to-toe in leather.” Spider-Man croaked the words out.

The effect of his spidey senses going haywire was apparently not as subtle as he hoped. The thought of chasing down even a little old lady made his stomach churn. He looked to Deadpool’s still webbed foot, hissed between his teeth and looked the mercenary over. _C’mon, Peter, think._

With more confidence than he felt, he spoke up. “...Here’s how it’s going to go down.”

“Oh boy, I smell an ultimatum,” Deadpool practically sing-songed. “Before you start, I should say: I can and will saw off that foot. I’m not attached to it. Well, _figuratively_. I’m _literally_ attached to it. I know because I’ve stubbed this big toe eight times in the past week alone.” 

“Eugh. I know you can but… _eugh_.” Spider-Man shook his head. The blaring sirens going off in all his nerve endings started to simmer down just a little and he was grateful. “But I bet it hurts like heck.” 

He firmly ignored Deadpool starting to coo at him for using ‘family friendly’ language. He had a reputation to maintain while he was in the suit. 

“Instead, how about I dissolve the webbing, then you and I go track down tonight’s potential robber?” 

The mercenary’s gloved hands flew up to press against his cheeks as he gasped. “A bonafide Spidey team up! There are comics about this. We’re heartmates and everything! The bracelets weren’t a bad investment, I knew it—” 

“But first,” Spider-Man interrupted firmly, “you leave all of your weapons here. On the roof. I’ll web them in place so they’re safe, but there’s no killing when you’re, uh… What did you call it?” 

“Part of a team-up,” Deadpool said helpfully.

“A team-up, right.” Spider-Man confirmed. “No killing in a Spider-Man team up.” 

Deadpool eyed him thoughtfully in a way that made him want to bolt. Deadpool clearly didn’t see Spider-Man as any kind of threat. That on its own wasn’t unusual, _per se._ Peter got underestimated a lot. He counted on it often. But the way Deadpool looked him over gave him the feeling that not only did Deadpool know _exactly_ how dangerous Spider-Man could be, he _didn’t care_.

For a moment, he tried to imagine what it must be like to live without any fear of dying. Knowing that no matter what happens to you, you’ll walk away. Immediately, the train of thought launched off track when he realized all that he would happily sacrifice to be able to give that power to May. The thought train twisted as it fell and fear settled in as he realized how many people would kill for that kind of power. Or how many people likely sought Deadpool for less than friendly reasons. 

Deadpool was still silent as he watched Spider-Man. Like he was waiting for him to make the next move. 

“...What?” Spider-Man squinted. “Why are you—” 

Another episode from his spidey senses cut him off mid-word and he curled in on himself. He wanted to do nothing more than run away. Find cover. Hide. Move. _Anything_. 

“There it is,” Deadpool’s voice sounded distant. There was some shuffling that Peter wanted to focus on but couldn’t. Then one booted foot and one bare foot stomped over in front of him. He scowled at the bare foot. “Don’t look like that, it was a very polite attempt at detainment! Easily in my top five.” 

“I don’t look like anything. I have a mask on,” Spider-Man groused, but he touched a hand to his cheek anyways just to make sure. Yup, still good. “Could web you up again, y’know.” 

“Yeah, but you won’t. We’re about to make a symbolic deal. It’s part of the team-up, right? You have leverage over me, I have leverage over you. That’s how this works.” The mercenary’s mask was right up in his face and Peter wanted to punch it. “You’ve got that precognition of yours acting up, don’t you? Do you actually see visions? Are you seeing a That’s So Raven montage right now?” 

Spider-Man winced. “Name your terms.” 

Deadpool’s voice lost its cheer. “After this, you leave this stuff alone. I’m not kidding. And I’m always kidding. Except right now. Because I’m being serious right now.” 

_No chance in hell,_ Peter thought. Spider-Man raised his gaze to meet Deadpool’s steadily. “Am I allowed to ask why?” 

“Sure.” 

Another long pause. He sighed. “Alright. _Why?_ ”

“Just because!” 

Spider-Man had tons of patience. But Spider-Man was currently nearly incapacitated by haywire spidey-sense. _Peter_ wasn’t known for his patience. He rocked forward on his heels and headbutted Deadpool as hard as he could. 

Deadpool keeled backwards, howling and clutching at his forehead. “‘Friendly’ my _leather clad ass_ , what the _fuck_ is _wrong_ with you?” 

“ _Usually_ friendly,” Spider-Man amended. “But that answer _sucked_.”

“ _You_ suck!” 

“If I don’t know why I’m avoiding one specific something and I make it my business to get personally involved in stopping all sorts of criminal activity all across the city,” Spider-Man gritted out. His spidey sense was starting to be difficult to differentiate from a migraine, which he assumed was due to the sheer quantity of guns Deadpool had on him. He continued, “...don’t you think there’s a fair chance I’ll end up sticking my nose right in the middle of it anyway?” 

He had to give himself credit. It sounded like a perfectly legitimate reason to demand more information. Spider-Man had absolutely no intentions of leaving any of it alone, and the more he knew about it the better. Deadpool didn’t need to know that. 

“That’s…!” Deadpool cut off. He stared at Spider-Man. “That’s… a really good point.” 

Spider-Man sat back on his haunches and shrugged broadly. “Right?” 

Deadpool sighed and fixed his gaze on the distant green glow of the corner deli. “Hey, do you know any of the Avengers? Like, personally.” 

The question caught him so off guard that he took a minute to chew on it. “I don’t know about _personally_ , but I interact with them enough I guess. Occasionally. Sort of. Why? What do they have to do with it?” 

“Nothing.” Deadpool’s attention snapped back to Spider-Man. “They’re heroes, Webs. Been at this whole hero-ing thing for longer than the both of us combined if you count good ol’ Capscicle’s head start, right? So I figure you probably looked up to one of them at some point. Maybe when you were just starting out, a wee bitty spiderling with only eight limbs and a dream.” 

As the little old lady got further away down the alley, his spidey senses calmed to a low hum. Spider-Man tapped his fingertips against the roof. 

“Alright, say I did. So what?” 

“Who was it?” Deadpool leaned forward until he tipped onto his stomach, legs kicked up behind him like he was gossiping at a sleepover. “I bet it was Captain Dreamy Eyes. It was, wasn’t it?”

Spider-Man’s lenses narrowed and he wobbled to his feet. He touched lightly at the webshooter on his wrist as he stared at the opening between the buildings indicative of the alleyway. He could still catch up to her if he moved quickly, and if he webbed Deadpool intensely enough to ensure his staying in one spot. He wasn’t even sure Deadpool would keep to the terms of agreement for any team-up. But if he was incapacitated by another wave of his spidey sense—

“Okay, okay, I get it, you’re in a hurry.” Deadpool stood up and balanced on one foot so that the bare one didn’t make contact with the roof. “Just imagine if I told you that Captain Kissable went on a murder spree. That he killed hundreds of people. Is there anything that would make you trust him again?” 

Spider-Man whirled around. “What are you talking about?”

“There are some missions that dear ol’ Cap doesn’t take. Lots of missions the Avengers don’t take. Wanna know why?” While Deadpool’s tone was still light and comical, there was a sharp edge to it now. “Because they’re heroes, and some missions require some not very heroic work. This is one of them. I want you out of it because you’re Spider-Man, and the Friendly Neighborhood Arachnid shouldn’t be anywhere near this mess.” 

A frown tugged Peter’s lips down under his mask. “Because I’m a hero.”

“Because you’re my hero, yes,” Deadpool nodded. 

Spider-Man blinked. “I’m… I’m what now?” 

“My hero!” A gloved hand waved in a quick circle and Deadpool hopped impatiently on his one booted foot. “Now, come on, we have to follow that cosmic headache of yours before the lead goes cold, right? So let’s do the symbolic handshake where we both bind ourselves to this in a ham-fisted attempt at foreshadowing—” 

He rambled on as he started slowly but surely disarming. His katanas and some of his guns he placed down with loving care. Others he dropped like used tissues. Peter stared at the growing pile and his brows furrowed. Where was he keeping all these weapons? Spider-Man’s head tilted. 

“Nuh-uh,” Deadpool tilted to catch his eyes and waggled a finger. “No eye-fucking til the second date. I’m old fashioned.”

Spider-Man froze.

Deadpool barked out laughter. “Only kidding, I’m a floozy. Get as eye-fresh as you like, Spidey-babe.” 

Peter supposed Deadpool’s willingness to carry the entire conversation was good since he couldn’t think clearly enough to do much other than sputter and turn as red as his mask. 

Not that Deadpool was fazed in the slightest. He happily recounted the full plot of Beauty and the Beast scene by scene as he fervently insisted it was the pinnacle of romance. It didn’t seem to even matter that Spider-Man was there. He might as well have been a cardboard cut-out. He felt like a child that was dismissed from the room so the adults could talk. He ground his teeth and ran a hand over the back of his neck to both soothe down the hackles he could practically feel standing on end and to reassure himself that his suit's mild voice modulator was still in place. Maybe tapped it just a teensy bit deeper.

He stretched a hand out and splotched a round of webbing square on Deadpool’s chest before using his strength to yank the other man close. Being shorter was never the best position to be in for intimidation purposes, but knocking someone clear off his feet helped. Spider-Man wrapped the extra webbing around his hand, holding all of Deadpool’s weight like he was lifting him by his lapels. Deadpool’s shins scraped on the ground and his eyes went wide as Spider-Man got right up in his face. 

“Let me be perfectly clear: if there is a way to solve this without killing, I will find it. And I will execute that plan, regardless of whether you want me to be involved or not. I will not promise otherwise.” He spoke quietly, low and firm. “There will be no killing. Not around me, not adjacent to me, not in my city. If I hear otherwise, I will make sure that your mission is the least of your concerns. These terms are _not negotiable._ Got it?” 

“Yes, _daddy_ ,” Deadpool crooned and Spider-Man dropped him like a hot potato. Laughter easily escaped from Deadpool even as he was crumpled on the ground. After some complicated unbuckling, he shed the last of his weapons. Then he posed dramatically next to his webbed boot. “Alright, whatever. I agree to your terms, Prince Charming. Would you give a gal her shoe back before the clock strikes midnight?”

Spider-Man rolled his eyes but complied. 

Deapool tried to wheedle a web-swinging ride from Spider-Man, to no avail. Instead they both took their own respective routes to follow their target. It didn’t take them long to catch up to the lady. Since she was still walking in plain view with no signs of stopping, tracking her should have been easy. 

Mid-air, between two rooftops, he got a sliver of warning. His spidey senses crept back to life not slowly but like they were coming at him from a great distance. Muffled, somehow. The old lady's silhouette suddenly flickered, doubled, and pulsed in neon pink, blue, green, white, orange—

Spidey senses burst through the thick glass preventing them from full connection and roared back to life at the worst possible moment. Air rushed out of his lungs and he clawed at his temples frantically instead of trying to latch onto the ledge he'd been aiming for. All his instincts pulled rank and took over his _everything,_ as they screamed at him to do anything he could think of to stop feeling like he was going to vibrate into a blur of color. 

Distantly, he knew he was falling. That he was in distinct danger of becoming a blue and red pancake, healing factor be damned. There was still enough altitude between him and the ground to correct this but the closer he got to his target, the more the world around him spun. 

Red and black interrupted the sight of asphalt and Spider-Man fell squarely into Deadpool’s arms. They crashed into the side of a dumpster with a _wham!_ that would have made him worry for Deadpool’s spine if he wasn’t so preoccupied with the alleyway morphing into a cyclone. 

He wriggled out of Deadpool’s grip, stumbled towards the center of the alley where the ground looked most solid. The old lady stared at them. 

_So much for discreetly following,_ Peter thought dismally. He squinted as his senses dulled and brightened like the ebb and flow of tide. It left him nauseated. He shuddered violently. 

"We aren't here to hurt you," his voice cracked and the ground beneath him wobbled like the deck of a ferry. He compensated with the bend of his knees. "Could we talk to you? I'm Spider-Man. I'm friendly, I promise."

Unlike the man at the crosswalk, the old lady’s glazed-over eyes didn’t hold her where she stood. She walked right on over to where Deadpool lingered. Deadpool talked loudly (always talking, always _loud_ ) but Spider-Man’s senses were flooded with every hue, every breath and scratch making sound in a four block radius, the smell of the back alley, fabric as it dragged across his skin, the weight of space above them, and it was all _so much_. He couldn't hear anything. Could barely see straight. 

He moved on instinct to get between the woman and Deadpool. 

The world tilted on its axis and his stomach lurched. More color—teal, too dark black, fuschia—poured out around the woman like an aura. It stretched out and engulfed him in hues so blindingly bright that it brought him to his knees and he couldn’t tell if he screamed. 

“Protecting me or him? How interesting,” the old woman’s voice said. Or maybe it was ten old ladies. Maybe thirty. He couldn’t see straight through a kaleidoscope of wiry white hair and floral reading glasses chains. “What do you see, Spider-Man?” 

He raised a hand on instinct, his webshooter pointed at the woman’s face. One of her faces, at least. Were there always so many? 

Something shoved him hard and he twisted like a cat in the air to try and find purchase. His fingers dug in and he panted. He thrashed wildly, unsure where the threat was in the chaos he rapidly sank into. He heard pops like gunshots and gagged on the “ _No!_ ” that tore from his throat. 

The colors worsened and he couldn’t see the ground anymore. The skyline faded to clouds of green and orange while something strong pressed him against something solid. He couldn’t use his full strength on an elderly woman—well, not a human woman and he didn't want to guess on gender identities of _Eldritch horrors —_when it was possible she was just scared and defending herself. But as he lost control of his right hand entirely he felt the color close in on him. Restriction around his chest made it hard to breathe, and he struggled to kick out his legs. He was running out of options. 

"I don't want to fight you," he ground out, testing against the weight to see if there was any give. 

He readied himself to pour all of his strength into his attempts to shove her off of him when the world crashed into stillness. His chest heaved. His throat felt raw. He threw his head to his right on instinct alone and watched from the frame of the mouth of the alley twenty paces away as the back of the elderly lady grew smaller as she casually made her way to the bodega across the street. She didn't even hurry or check over her shoulder. Just meandered like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

He was still grappling for control of his cognitive functions as the echo where his spidey senses had been over powering left a ringing in his ears and black spots shaking in front of his eyes. The something that kept him firmly in place was still there, and it took more effort than he would have liked to tear his gaze away from the no longer visible outline of the old lady, and back on Deadpool. 

Deadpool’s mask was a breath away from his. A gloved hand pressed gently but firmly across his throat, another hand wrapped around one of his wrists to keep it pinned above his head. He used the weight of his whole body to flatten Spider-Man against the brick. In any other circumstance, it could have been soothing to be so completely covered and pressed into. The leg slid between his didn’t help lessen Peter’s confusion as he tried to focus on Deadpool’s voice. 

“—hear me, Webs? Can you focus on me? You can keep that up if it helps.” 

Spider-Man blinked, not sure what Deadpool meant when he realized the knuckles of his free hand hurt and that Deadpool stood at a crooked angle. He stared down at his fist and realized he had been pummeling the other man’s ribcage. His lenses went wide in horror and he rasped out a desperate breath before pawing at the hand around his throat. 

“Let me go,” he hissed. Or at least he tried to. “Deadpool, let me go, or I’ll—” 

It came out more of a jumble, and he wasn't sure all of it was in English. Latin, maybe? Spanish?

Deadpool squeezed the palm around his throat lightly, then released. There was no pressure against his windpipe. The hold was just strong enough to keep Peter in place with the leverage of a vulnerable spot.

“Easy there, _amigo_. Take a breath. I’m not choking you. Not on the first date.” 

“Not _amigos_.” Spider-Man growled, his voice hoarse. It sounded closer to intelligent, but not by much. "Not a _date._ " 

He used his still free hand to stick to Deadpool’s and used his strength to pull him off. Unfortunately, Deadpool was expecting that. He moved seamlessly, catching Peter’s free wrist and putting it up above his head with the other. He used his sheer size to keep Spider-Man pressed flat against the wall. There was nowhere to maneuver without seriously injuring him. Peter was left with a choice: stay still or hurt Deadpool badly to brute force his way out. 

Well, injure him _more._ Spider-Man glanced guiltily down at Deadpool's side. 

“Sorry, Webs, no can do. Hoping you're still with it enough to remember how much you hate hurting folks, otherwise this is gonna suck for me, and not in the fun way." Deadpool talked and talked. Spider-Man was able to comprehend bits and pieces but the stream of nonsense helped. It was constant, even amongst the chaos of _whatever the hell that was._ "You made me promise no unaliving, and while I think this probably isn’t what you meant, here we are.” 

It was strange, but Peter swore Deadpool sounded stressed as he laughed. One gloved thumb stroked soothing circles over his wrist, while the thigh between his legs lifted him slightly upwards in a way that made him dizzy. He didn't miss that it prevented him from having to keep balance on his own. 

“Do you like jokes? Of course you do, everyone likes jokes. Knock knock?” Deadpool definitely sounded stressed. Even when he pitched his voice differently to answer his own joke. “ _Who’s there?_ Oh it’s Spider-Man! He’s suddenly lost his marbles and is strong enough to punch me through a building! Hey, this doesn’t happen to come with an instruction manual does it? I thought I was the one that had to focus on no unaliving—” 

“What?” Peter’s voice was hoarse. He felt cold. Unseeing green eyes flooded his memory. “No...I didn't mean to kill anyone...”

He must have sounded coherent at last since Deadpool somehow looked exasperated and relieved at the same time. “No, you’re supposed to say ‘ _Spider-Man who?’_ Try again.” 

Deadpool stayed firmly planted and the narrowing of the eye slits in his mask spoke to the deep paranoia Peter remembered reading about. Which usually led to ugly events, if not soothed. So he nodded and tried to catch up with his runaway pulse. The proximity wasn’t helping, but his spidey senses were blessedly silent. Nothing was going to hurt him. Deadpool didn't intend to hurt him. Peter swallowed, ignored the way he felt the pressure of the other man's palm as he did so, and stopped struggling. He gave Deadpool a moment to see that he wasn't a threat. Finally, when he was ready, he spoke.

“Spider-Man who?” 

Honoring Spider-Man's cooperation with a nod, Deadpool cautiously let go of him. He took a step back and cold night air flooded where the warmth pressed against his chest faded. It was sobering. Without being able to anchor himself to the brick with a touch, Peter was certain he would’ve fallen.

“What _happened_ there, Spidey?” 

Peter shuddered then shook his arms and legs out.

“What do you mean ‘what happened?’ Did you not _see_ that?” He gestured wildly, inarticulate again. "The attack! Or maybe it was just for show, she might have been scared—" 

He cut off when he noticed Deadpool staring at him blankly. It didn't exactly do wonders for his ego to feel like the crazier of the two of them.

“You really didn't see it? There were a lot of bright colors, but they were moving. Like those little colored powder pouches you throw at Holi or at pride parades. Opaque, nearly smoky, kind of? When she spoke she was practically screaming with her million different voices and heads. It looked like magic, I guess? I think? I don’t know!” He shrugged and shook himself out. “That’s usually Strange’s scene. I don't deal with a lot of that stuff. But I didn’t catch how many copies she made of herself. Did you? Or how she got so _loud_."

Even with the lengthier description, Deadpool didn't seem to track. He tilted his head and stared at Spider-Man. One arm was crossed over his chest, the other brought up to scratch at his cheek.

Spider-Man made a frustrated sound and tried to go simpler. After a series of dramatic movements and sound effects to reenact the whole thing, he turned to Deadpool hopefully.

He got an apologetic shrug in response. "That was poetry in motion but, no. Sorry, Spidey-babe. I have no idea what you're smokin'." 

"How could you possibly have _missed_ it?” Spider-Man hollered.

“Hold on, pause,” Deadpool held up a hand. “Here's my version of it: You were swinging between that building and this one here to keep on the mark's trail, then it looked like you ran out of web-gunk. Or just decided not to follow up with the second half of the movement. Not sure. All I know is that I saw you falling like a sack of bricks, so I rushed over to break your fall. Like a fucking gentleman." 

Spider-Man's eyebrows went up to his hairline. 

"After which, I was momentarily unable to be an eye witness because—in your gratitude to me for preventing you from being a Spidey- _crêpe —_you broke my nose and gave me two black eyes with your _body made entirely of knees and elbows_. By the time I healed up dear old Maggie McCrumplestitch came close enough to say something to you that made you _lunge_ at her like she was a knock off Doc Ock. Say _that_ five times fast.”

Spider-Man gaped at him. 

“I got a hold of you, and you didn’t punch me through a building so that’s a win,” Deadpool listed the point off on a fingertip. “No little old ladies were harmed in the writing of this chapter. At least physically. Emotionally, no promises.”

“Chapter?” Spider-Man echoed weakly.

Deadpool nodded. “You can’t feel it? The end of our first team-up.” 

Winds picked up as the temperature in the city dropped, but the way Spider-Man shivered had nothing to do with the promise of chill in the air. 

“You kept me from getting hurt. And you stopped me from hurting her,” he said slowly. “...Thank you.” 

For a while, Deadpool was speechless. Later, Peter would feel a strange mix of smug and sad about this. But at the time, he simply stared down at the pavement. He let his eyes trail up the sides of the building. Looked to the dents in the brick from where he had dug his palm and heels in to fight against Deadpool’s grip. 

If Deadpool hadn’t been there…

He shook his head and shoved that line of thinking down to the soles of his feet. 

He came out tonight hoping for more information. The way he figured, if this wasn’t _a whole truckload_ of information, then he didn’t know what it was. Technically, it was a success, if an unconventional one. Spider-Man wasn't above accepting victory-by-technicality.

“So,” Deadpool cleared his throat and dragged Spider-Man's attention back to his surroundings, “what did she say to you? Is this a Frosty the Magic Russian Assassin situation? If I say fishsticks too many times are you gonna lose it?” 

“Fish...sticks...?” Spider-Man went rigid. He swayed on his feet, clutched at his head. He crouched down, lenses narrowed to slits. Then they blew open wide as he focused his gaze like a laser on the mercenary in front of him. Deadpool started backing away and swearing up a streak blue enough to make a sailor blush. It was like the weight of all the metal in New York lifted off of Peter’s chest at that exact moment and his own laugh startled him. A chuckle at first, then a deep belly laugh that had him curled over and resting his hands on his knees. It amazed him how something so goofy could make him feel like he was back in his own skin again. “Sorry, _sorry_. Just messing with you.” 

“ _You —!_” Deadpool’s outrage only worsened. “You have no idea! I could have hurt you! Or _unalived_ you! Do you have any idea how fucked I would be if I killed everyone’s favorite bug? I mean I guess it depends on what canon you subscribe to but you can bet the whole super-secret-boy-band farm that there would be at least a little vibranium involved. Maybe a _raft_ , if you catch my drift. ‘No, no it’s fine,’ I’d cry, ‘it was Spidey who was crazy, not me!’ Yeah! _Hah!_ That’s believable! Holy shit, you’re a _terror —_” 

“Menace, actually,” Peter corrected. “And you couldn’t take me.” 

"Oh I could _take_ you, alright!" Deadpool snapped back, complete with lewd hip pumps. 

He probably should have felt bad about the other man’s clear distress, but he couldn’t stop grinning. Whatever was controlling these people had an impact on his spidey senses stronger than he had ever experienced. Strong enough to be goddamn _hallucinatory_ if he was to take Deadpool's word on his experience being a solo one. That was bad news when it came to fighting it, but locating it? Peter was his own best compass. Talk about hitting the jackpot. 

He _thwipped_ a ledge near the top of the adjacent building and crouched over a window frame. Deadpool looked so much smaller from a few stories away. Not as overwhelming. Just some guy in leather ranting and shaking his fist at another guy in spandex. 

How did Peter’s life end up like this? 

“Hold your fucking _arachnid-themed_ horses,” Deadpool was wearing a mask, but Spider-Man could feel the scowl pointed his way anyway. “You get that perfect ass back down here and take me back to my weapons and dissolve your nasty _web-jizz._ ”

“Who?” Spider-Man’s lenses went wide and he pointed at himself innocently. “Me?”

“Yes, _you_ ,” Deadpool’s arms crossed over his chest and his eyes narrowed. 

Spider-Man turned so he was positioned to crawl up the wall and arched his back a little. “This ass?” 

Finally, it was Deadpool sputtering instead of Spider-Man. _Hah_.

“I have no idea what weapons you’re talking about. But I’m pretty sure the web-jizz dissolves on its own after, oh, about forty-eight hours. Give or take twenty,” he called, tone lofty as he scampered up and out of sight. 

He had to cup a hand over his mouth to stop himself from audibly laughing and ruining his exit when Deadpool unleashed a fire-hose litany of _strong disapproval_ clearly audible even when Spider-Man was a good three buildings away. Only when he swung up high into the night sky did it fade from his hearing. The grin stayed firmly in place. 

* * *

“That’s when he fell limp into my arms. I felt his breath soft on my neck and knew the episode, whatever it was, was over. My boy was back with me.” Wade stared solemnly at the ceiling. “I picked him up, princess style because I’m a fucking gentleman, and held him close until he was coherent enough to ask if there was anything, _anything_ he could do to thank me properly—”

“Are you waiting for me to call bullshit?” Weasel interrupted. It only took him _two hours_ into the extremely factually accurate retelling. “Because I’m a few joints in and having someone read a bodice ripper to me sounds like a nice evening.”

“Of course it’s bullshit,” Wade glowered at his laptop screen where Weasel blew smoke at the camera. “The wiry little fucker broke half my ribs, yelled at me, webbed all my weapons to a roof just outside of the Bronx, then just left me there in the alley like a five dollar hooker. I think I’m in _love_.”

“Gross.”

Wade sniffled. “My new baby was in that weapons pile Weasel. The hand painted muffler. I left my baby on a rooftop in the _Bronx_.” 

“Right. Bummer. Anyway, what have we learned?” Weasel stared at him with less and less patience. 

“I learned that I have a thing for super-strength. Did I mention that he knocked bricks loose? Bricks from an actual wall, Weasel.”

“I already know a disturbing amount about your sex life, Wade,” Weasel cut him off loudly. “I meant about the situation. Do you remember that there’s a situation? There’s a whole world beyond spandex asses—”

“A cruel world,” Wade bemoaned. 

“—and that world is currently getting fucked by Weapon X. Not gently, either. Hate sex. Unhealthy.” Weasel pointed a finger at the chat next to his face, timed perfectly to gesture at a new file upload. Wade’s suspicion that Weasel practiced his whole hacker vibe was practically confirmed. “Open that. That’s a compilation of all I’ve got. Between the guy with the tablet, Ethan with the staples, and Bronx Grandma, there’s no discernible pattern. No mutual friends, no mutual haunts, nothing. The things that got stolen didn’t even go anywhere, either. No one’s even tried to bust the staples out of evidence.”

Wade frowned and sat forward. “What about friends of friends? Suggested friends on MyFace? SpaceBook?” 

Weasel’s lower lip jutted out and his brows rose in a ‘not bad’ that would have been flattering if he didn’t manage to cram twelve tons of condescension into the expression. Nothing but the _clickety-clack_ of keys filled the air while Weasel did his homework. It left Wade alone with his thoughts. Historically speaking, always a bad idea. 

The clock on his laptop screen let him know it was barely midnight. No boon from magic hour yet.

He couldn’t get the memory of Spider-Man lunging at Bronx Grandma out of his head, or the weird pawing at the air he did just before. It was hard to tell what was going on behind that mask, but it looked like Spider-Man was only sparingly focused on Bronx Grandma. He’d wobbled like he felt an earthquake, and took swipes at empty air. It was clumsy. Spider-Man was a lot of things (overly righteous, naive, holy shit _so strong_ it was _so hot —_) but he wasn’t clumsy. 

That came with the whole precognition thing that Wade was shamelessly using to his advantage. Finding trouble was never easier than when all he had to do was skillfully follow red-and-blue. (Hah! Rhyme!) Granted that Spider-Man’s patrols had been increasingly erratic over the last week, but Wade was plenty fine taking credit for that. He knew there was no possible way Spider-Man was going to let their initial confrontation go. Not while he thought Deadpool was a threat to… how did he put it? _His_ city. 

Ugh _. Chills_. Wade shivered and grinned. The audacity of anyone claiming New York was their city was typically laughable at best. With Spidey, however, it felt _right_. His love for the city was plain as the lenses on his face, but he had something the other supers didn’t have: requited love. New York loved him back, loved him fiercely. 

2:33 a.m. blinked at Wade when he glanced at the clock again. Tragically its magic didn’t extend to Weasel, who hunched over his keyboard like he aimed to shove himself into the computer and grab the data with his bare hands. Tron-style. 

Wade tapped his foot impatiently and sighed. 

Occasionally in the business of ~~stalking~~ tracking a lead, one was forced to leave the shadows and be seen. It was pretty crucial, actually. If you wanted someone not to notice you the best way to do so was to convince them you were somewhere else entirely. Letting himself be seen as Deadpool was usually unnerving at best and downright dangerous at worst. At least it was until he tried it in New York. 

The first time someone mistook him for Spider-Man, Deadpool laughed so hard he cried. Then he punched the self-righteous asshole (smiling, adoring fan) he knew was playing a sick joke on a poor, tired, downtrodden mercenary (himself). The next time, he agreed to a selfie and encouraged the kid to also make the X-Force gesture, which was blatantly ripped off from Wakanda. 

What? They have good branding.

Retrospectively, that explained the kid’s confusion. 

The third time it happened, he rolled with it. He wanted to know for sure if it was some giant inside joke all of New York was in on. Instead he discovered that Abuela Martínez took genuine delight in making lunch for Spider-Man. She chatted on and on about how much her grandson loved Spidey and showed him a little spider themed tin lunch-box as proof. 

The kid’s parents were going through hard times, she explained. Her eyes fell to the ground instead of the bright earnestness she’d had while she cooked. She shrugged her shoulders, said that she brought her grandson over to hers whenever she could. That her son just wasn’t himself when he’d been drinking, but that she was sure it would blow over. It always did, she reassured Deadpool, so there was no need for Spider-Man to get involved. 

See, Deadpool was busy trying to do his best impression of Spidey-babe. He tried to keep himself light in tone as well as on his feet (a lot of close encounters of the vase kind) but he felt the heaviness sink into him at the implication. He couldn’t bring himself to reply, but instead just took the lunchbox with a quiet “ _gracias_ ”, before scrawling a message to the kid in sharpie on the inner lid. 

_Sorry, your Abuela thought I was Spider-Man. Just Deadpool. But if you or your mom are ever in danger, call._

He tacked on his private line on then signed with a DP that he begrudgingly gave spider legs as Abuela Martínez watched on. He guessed by her delight that she wasn’t fluent in English. 

The point of it all wasn’t the kid, nor how it caused Wade’s heart to feel like it was made of fresh-out-of-the-oven pizza bagels to know that that kid now had a way to protect himself through Deadpool. The point was that Abuela Martínez unlocked her front door and brought someone she thought was Spider-Man into her home without a second thought. 

She didn’t keep a close eye on him, either. She left him to his own devices for a bit to return with an opaque plastic jug full of something that burned when he tried to get a whiff. Homemade liquor, he assumed. Outlines of fermented orange slices sloshed around in the deep amber as she walked with it and bounced before settling when the jug hit the kitchen table with a _thunk_.

“ _Mire, preparé este licor de naranja para mis hijos pero me sobró un tantito, ¡Lléveselo, por favor! Es bueno para la digestión. ¿Le gustaría quedarse también a comer? Se puede tomar una copita cuando termine_.” 1

“ _¿Qué cree, Doña Martínez?, de veras me encantaría pero me va a tener que disculpar. Vine de rápido y de hecho me tengo que ir pronto._ ” He shook his head but hoped the smile under his mask came through somehow. 2

“ _Que mal... al menos déjeme prepararle algo para que se lo coma en el camino. Y si me ayuda a cocinar, terminaríamos más rápido._ ” 3

It was hard to argue with that. Harder even when Wade caught a sniff of Abuela Martinez’s spice cabinet. _Damn_.

He watched her out of the corner of his eyes, but she showed no concern over Spidey’s strength when handling the glassware. Not even a little bit alarmed at Spidey taking up a chef’s knife and helping chop tomatoes. Wade did some fancy and increasingly dangerous knife tricks just to see what he could get away with but he was met with only easy laughter and, a couple times, _applause_. 

She trusted Spider-Man. There wasn’t an ounce of malice in the tacos she packed into tupperware for him. Just homemade salsa, seasoned ground beef, onion, cilantro, lime, and love. 

Palpable, tangible, and delightfully spicy. 

Wade glanced at the empty and washed tupperware next to his laptop and wondered not for the first time if he’d done the right thing in letting Spider-Man follow the Weapon-X lead. Not that he knew how to stop the stubborn bug, anyway. Fake leads, maybe. If he planted fake leads, then he lost the advantage that came with following in the wind-break Spidey left in his wake. It was a nice change of pace from how he usually flew solo. At least in the field, he did. 

“Fuck me.” Weasel slouched away from the laptop. 

Wade snickered. 

“Don’t. I’m not into avocados sexually.” Weasel cut him off before he could make the joke. “No friends of friends, or mutual suggestions, but...”

Weasel’s face scrunched up in concentration and Wade heard the rhythmic click-clack of a good old copy-and-paste. His eyes flicked to the little clock on the screen next to Weasel’s face that put them just past 5:00 a.m. Not a magical time, but it wouldn’t be the first time Weasel pulled off something supposedly impossible without the help of magic. Though, it _also_ wouldn’t be unlike Weasel to have some dark shit within arm’s reach to save himself some research pain.

There was a ping on the screen and Wade opened the file. His laptop screen loaded an itemized receipt, directly from Wade’s telemarketing job. Wade frowned. 

“Did you steal that with my login? _Weas_ ,” Wade clucked his tongue. “Mark is going to be so disappointed in me. I’ve barely been there a few weeks and I’m already breaking my NDA. It usually takes me a couple months at least.” 

“Wade,” Weasel sounded serious. Uh oh. “Look at the list.” 

Wade scanned the list of names and products, not sure if he was proud or mortified that he recognized the product codes. His eyes caught on ‘Ethan Samuel Neale.’ Wade’s brow furrowed. The other names started to look familiar. ‘Jeffery French’ of Dreadlocks Jeff fame. ‘Edith Dubois,’ who presumably starred recently in her role of Bronx Grandma. 

“See it?” Weasel’s grin always looked like a bad omen. Like you were about to be shat on by a pigeon and only he knew it was coming. 

“Yeah, these are all the robberies, plus Bronx Grandma. Who never actually stole anything,” Wade paused. “Wait. Wait, are there any other cases of people acting strangely?” 

Weasel’s grin dropped. “In good ol’ New York Shitty? Golly gee, Mr. Wilson, I’ll see if I can find anything—”

“No, _smartass_ ,” Wade shook his head. “Unaware of their surroundings, acting out of character, moving like a toddler that just learned how to walk. Any reports of nightmare hallucinations from psychics in relation to these incidents. It’d look like they were having a stroke, but without any medical evidence of it.” 

Weasel’s eyes narrowed, but he did as asked. More clickety-clacking. Weasel’s jaw dropped and eyes went wide.

“Okay. Okay, you might be onto something,” Weasel kept typing. “Just crossing strange sightings from mutants with known psychic powers and odd behavior turned up thousands of cases. If I add in claimed-but-untested psychics… Jesus ass-fucking Christ.” 

“What?” Wade scooted forward to the edge of the couch to crowd the laptop screen. “What does that mean?”

“It means we were wrong about these people being agents,” Weasel sat back in his chair and dragged a hand through his greasy hair before rubbing at his even worse beard. “Because there are batches of exactly ten cases each month for the last two years. This is a controlled experiment of some kind. Whatever it is that’s affecting them, it’s being sent through the frequencies H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech reserves for it’s devices.” 

“Weapon X! Human experiments with unwilling participants? That has Weapon X all fucking over it!” Wade jumped to his feet and whooped. Then faltered. “Wait. That means—”

“Yeah.” Weasel sounded grim. “These people are innocent.” 

Weasel wasn’t a kind man, but he was kind enough to leave the ‘including the people you’ve already unalived,’ unspoken. 

Wade thought of Abuela Martínez and the H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech smart phone on her kitchen counter with the cracked screen. He pressed his fingers into fists and sighed. 

“Alright. Alright! Fuck-a-doodle-doo, they’re innocent. Fuck. Okay. _Fine_ ,” he seethed. “Now that we have a complete-ish list, I need you to check and see where these people have been. Where they walked, drove, rode the train, bought crack, I don’t give a fuck. We need to know if there’s any common overlap point, or if Weapon X is really just picking people off a list of H.A.M.M.E.R. customers randomly. 

“Are you shitting me?” Weasel’s voice cracked. “Do you have any idea how long that would take? I might die of old fucking age before I have the base data compiled, never mind—” 

“The red and gold flying dildo could probably do it.” 

It was a low blow, but it worked. Weasel’s eyes hardened. “Give me a week.” 

“Three days,” Wade tried.

“Not a negotiation,” Weasel snapped. Oh well. “In the meantime, take your ugly ass to work your shitty job at H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech. See if they know they’re the pool being pulled from. There’s a connection there, but H.A.M.M.E.R. might not know about it. Tread carefully, Wade. Whatever the fuck these infected ballsacks are up to, they don’t want anyone catching on to it.” 

The call ended without so much as a goodbye, love you, or see you soon. It left Wade staring at his own reflection on the one-person call before he disconnected as well. What an ugly mug to be left alone with. He glanced at the clock; a little past three. He had a nice window before he started his shift. Who the fuck needed sleep? Or a shower? Fucking _fuck_ it. 

He sniffed at one of his pits and groaned. Showering wasn’t optional if he wanted to keep his job. 

“That’s not too bad of a to-do list,” Wade mumbled to himself, trying to stave off the sour mood he felt encroaching like a storm cloud. “Shower, break contract without getting caught, and probably sell something before Marky-Mark catches on that all my outbounds were to one guy. No more distractions.”

The thought of Peter was all it took. The storm cloud settled over him like stink lines on a badly drawn cartoon pile of shit. Wade scowled at the floor of his apartment and scuffed his boot across it until there was a satisfying black rubber mark. 

“Sorry, baby boy,” he spoke softly. “I have to actually do my _stupid_ job for a bit.” 

* * *

Peter rubbed at his eyes and rolled his wheely chair over to the printer labelled OS-CORP-03X. Page after page slid over plastic and he felt the heat soughing off the machine in waves. After the last fifty or so print jobs, it wasn’t a nice warmth so much as it made him feel feverish. He took the new stack and rolled back over to the workstation. 

He loosened the tie around his neck, grateful that he’d had the foresight to go home after his patrol. He might have accidentally tried to microwave a fork that one time, but he was at least self-aware enough to know he should change into his work clothes so that when his research all-nighter inevitably bled into the start of his shift he wouldn’t have to worry about changing. 

He was _less_ grateful for sweating it out in a button up, slacks, and tie, but you can’t win them all. He scrubbed a hand through his already messed-up-beyond-redemption hair and pulled the click-pen out of his mouth to start making notes. 

Like he thought, these incidents were spaced out in controlled groups. As much vindication that came with that discovery, all he could pull from it was that the victims all had H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech gear of some kind. That was the only connection he’d managed to find. That was about as helpful as saying that all of the victims breathed air, or ate pizza at some point in their lives. Sure, it was likely that the common thread was at least a sign of how these people were being chosen, but there was otherwise no similarity. The devices were all different, and often weren’t the only piece of H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech equipment in their lives. One lady even had an episode when trying to use her microwave. 

The point was H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech was common—hell, even Peter counted amongst the crowd with his shitty burner phone. 

He paused to glance at the aforementioned phone. Wilson’s shift started about thirty minutes ago, if his past calls were any reliable reference. Not that Peter meant to keep track of that kind of thing. He was just twitchy from an eventful patrol. 

So here he was, with pages and pages and pages of location data, trying to figure out if there was a common point for these thousands of people over the past five _years_. At least Oscorp was footing the bill for the ink. 

Well, until whoever flicked on the outside hallway light came in here to put a stop to Peter’s obscene misuse of the company’s printers. He tried to both shove away from the desk and duck beneath it simultaneously. 

The end result was Peter slamming his forehead against the plaster table hard enough to crack it. 

He swallowed back a holler of pain and muffled the sound that did come out with the crook of his elbow. Defeated, he slumped to the floor as his wheely chair spun away behind him. He stared up at the ceiling and squinted when the fluorescent lights blinked to life. Peter scowled at the sudden bright, thinking back to the lady in the alley. He was tired in that bone-deep kind of way that left him flopped on the floor in plain sight even as the footsteps came closer. 

He regretted not hiding when he caught sight of red curls pulled into a loose ponytail. MJ, ever rolling with the punches, only looked surprised for a split second before she looked unimpressed. Peter pretended it didn’t hurt. 

“Hey there, Tiger,” MJ said cautiously, almost like she was partially concerned about Peter being drunk. Peter’s scowl worsened. He’d never had the chance to get drunk before he got bit. Without pulling in Asgardian booze, he would never— “Did you fall down?” 

Peter cut the internal self-pity monologue short and huffed indignantly. Then realized the truth was worse. So he squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes.” 

“Have you been here all night?” MJ walked closer and set her purse down on the workstation desk. 

_Oh good,_ Peter thought sullenly. _She’s staying._

He caught the bitterness in his throat before it reached his tongue. MJ deserved better than to bear the brunt of his anger. She deserved better and had been well within her rights to dump him. That it still stung something fierce wasn’t her problem. It was a strange feeling to reconcile with sincerely hoping that she found the happiness he wasn’t able to give her. 

“Not all night,” he sighed. “Just… more night than I probably should have spent here.” 

MJ laughed and a lot of the old aches and pains left with it. She wasn’t actually angry with him. Just teasing. It was pathetic how much relief he got from that. 

“Well, lucky me. I wanted to talk to you.” 

There went the relief.

Peter sat up and frowned at his ex-fiancée. “Oh? Everything okay?” 

MJ plastered on a too-bright smile with a little too much teeth. “Everything’s fine! Great, actually. Better than great. I’m doing fantastic.” 

“Fantastic,” Peter echoed, pulling a tight smile himself to mirror hers. “That’s… fantastic.”

“Yup,” MJ popped the p, and crossed her arms over her chest. She felt vulnerable. He tilted his head. “It’s not me I wanted to talk about. I was worried about you, actually.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed and that spike of anger came back. “Why were you worried about me? I’m also good. Fantastic, even.”

“Really,” MJ said flatly. She looked him over pointedly and Peter snapped his gaze back to his work. He started gathering his documents and did his best to filter out her commentary. “—you even showered? Plus I know for a fact that you haven’t been to any of the Oscorp social events. I even stopped going ‘cuz I thought you might just be avoiding me. Ten events later and all I’ve accomplished is missing out on free food and booze.” 

“So sorry to hear that,” Peter’s voice had more ice in it than he’d have liked, but it was too late to retract it. He could be smart and leave it at that, before he let his wounded pride do any more damage. Peter wasn’t a smart man. “I hope that worry hasn’t been detracting from your otherwise _fantastic_ life these days.” 

That hit a nerve and her polite smile faded rapidly. He already felt regret seeping through his chest and down into his gut like sludge. 

He cleared his throat. “MJ, I’m sorry, that was uncalled for—” 

“Nope!” She smiled brightly, venomously. “It’s fine! It hasn’t impacted my fantastic life at all! That’s the perk of having a fantastic life, Peter. Little swipes like that aren’t day-wreckers when you don't have to grasp at straws for affection in your relationship.” 

Peter reeled. “Your relationship? You’re dating?” 

“You’re not?” MJ feigned surprise and Peter’s blood boiled. It was easy to miss her during the lonely mornings, but when they fought, MJ and Peter both had a knack for drawing blood. “Oh, right. Too busy working overtime. On the floor.” 

He saw red and did something he had another knack for: speaking without thinking. 

“I’m dating,” he narrowed his eyes at her and lifted his chin with a pride that was carried by pure spite. The panic that slowly bloomed in his chest was firmly ignored. “I didn’t bring it up because, well…” 

He gestured at her vaguely, taking victory in the gasp she tried to muffle. He could practically see fire in her eyes even if he was adamantly pretending to be focused on gathering up his papers and placing them in his briefcase. 

“That’s where I’ve been spending my time. I figured it was obvious and didn’t want to do something cruel like bury my ex-fiancée’s nose in it.” He should stop. He knew he should stop. Instead he watched idly as his pride wrenched control from him. “We’ve been together a while now.” 

“I’m so happy for you,” MJ barely managed her polite smile. It looked more like a sneer. “What’s her name?” 

Panic started to catch up. _Shit_. Peter stalled. “ _His_ name, actually.” 

The wide-eyed shock that rocked MJ back to her feet was almost worth the mad scrambling in his head for a name, any male name he could think of. Gerald was a respectable name, right? Hubert? 

God, what was wrong with him? 

“I… I mean you mentioned,” MJ trailed off. “I never realized you meant to pursue…” 

“Men?” Peter said bluntly. He couldn’t stop digging his own grave. He was diseased. He wished badly that Doc Ock would figure out his identity, bust through the window any moment now, and put an end to his suffering. “I was never in the closet, MJ.” 

“I know,” MJ’s expression soured, but it wasn’t pointed at him. Instead she stared at her own purse and tapped her fingernails on the buckle. “I’m sorry, Pete. There’s something about you that still gets under my skin like crazy. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to out your relationship.”

The fire in Peter’s gut faded completely to the panic, and he could only see MJ’s sincere apology over intruding on Peter’s extremely non-existent relationship. She’d just been worried about him and he’d gone and invented a boyfriend to one-up her. He wanted to burst into _dust_. 

“Ah, it’s uh. It’s okay, really.” He scratched at the back of his head. “I get it. It’s like you just lose control over anything you’re saying, only seeing chances to win.”

“Yes! Exactly!” MJ nodded and her smile looked relieved. “Of course you get it. I don’t know why I thought...” 

She shook her head and laughed softly. Peter raised a brow. 

“Why you thought…?” he prompted. 

MJ’s smile took on a mournful hue. “We used to be best friends, Peter. Before we dated, before we were engaged. Not sure if you’ve realized, but we’re a lot alike.” 

Peter snorted and nodded. She was right. For better or for worse, they were a lot alike. When they were good, they were incredible. When they were bad… Well. Peter glanced down at his left hand, at the spot where a ring used to sit. The words to confess his stupid lie sat on the tip of his tongue and he tried to will himself to speak. 

Then his phone rang. 

MJ peeked over at his burner phone with obvious curiosity. She spoke in a hushed whisper. “Is that him?” 

Even though he knew full well it was Wilson—he was the only person who knew his burner number—Peter hated the smile that tugged at his lips nearly as much as he hated the fact that he _nodded_. He picked up the phone hastily, apologizing and moved to decline the call. MJ’s hand stopped him and she gestured for him to take it. 

He tried for a grateful smile but it undoubtedly wobbled. So he flicked his phone open and did the only sensible thing he could do. It was time to come clean, time to make sure this didn’t spiral out of control, to actually do right by MJ and tell the truth—

“Hi, love,” Peter said. “I missed you this morning. How’s your shift?” 

There was a brief pause before Wilson spoke. “...Ex-fiancée there?” 

Peter turned his back to MJ to hide the mortified flush that creeped over his face. “Mmhm!” 

“And I’m the new boyfriend?” Wilson sounded delighted. 

Peter fought a scowl and kept his tone light and loving. “Of course you are. Who else?” 

“Brilliant,” Wilson laughed. “Mr. Parker I need vocal authorization to charge your email linked PayPal account for a HAM-1750. $300. A small price to pay for the best boyfriend you’ve ever had. Go on, Petey-pie. Say _I do._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of Wade's conversation with Abuela Martínez:  
> 1 Look, I made this orange liquor for my sons (and daughters) but I have some left over. Take it, please! It’s good for digestion. Would you like to stay for lunch too? You can have a drink after you’re done.  
> 2 Miss Martínez, I’d really love to but you’ll have to excuse me. I’m in a rush and actually I have to leave soon.  
> 3 That’s too bad, at least let me make you something to eat on the go. And if you help me cook we could finish faster
> 
> Thank you to traffy for giving Abuela Martínez a voice!!! And as always, thank you to Hanuko, Emi, Sun, El, and Joe for being the best team a gal could ask for. This fic would still be an abstract concept without your assistance. Thank you, thank you, thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glazedsun/pseuds/glazedsun), [Traffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TLaw/pseuds/TLaw), [Emi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualbarry/pseuds/bisexualbarry), [Hanuko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HanukoYoukai/pseuds/HanukoYoukai), [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe), El, and Joe!! For putting up with my absurd quantities of words, whining about this chapter being difficult to push through, and helping me balance out the laughs with the hurt! 
> 
> Also special thanks to Chai who answered some questions about NYC geography for me!!

It took years and years to master the application of his strength, but in that moment, it took hearing the cheap plastic crinkling slightly to realize he was about to crack his phone into shrapnel. He took in a deep breath and bid a fond farewell to the bison burgers he’d been looking forward to. 

“I do, sweetheart,” Peter’s voice verged into sickly sweet and he hoped Wilson heard the unspoken threat. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while later.” 

“Oh-ho, Pumpkin Eater, you already have. Bought and paid for. Boom! You can give me a shipping address later. Or not. I can keep it, I’m not picky.” 

“I was actually just catching up with MJ,” Peter said pointedly. At this point even facing his ex-fiancée looked appealing if Wilson kept upping the ante via shitty H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech blackmail. “Would it be alright if I called you back…?”

“I don’t do pillow talk, baby boy. Just filthy, raunchy—” 

MJ made apologetic gestures and moved to excuse herself and Peter wanted to die. 

“Haha, alright, alright,” he faked the laugh through gritted teeth. He was going to have a victory in this mess. It was going to happen. So he bit out his next words. “Since I know you’ll never let me hear the end of it if I don’t, I’ll put you on speaker so you can finally meet her.” 

“Wait, _what?_ ” Wilson said at almost the exact moment as MJ. 

Victory fluttered in Peter’s chest and he proudly pressed the little speakerphone button. “Wilson, love, you’re on speakerphone. Behave, please. MJ, this is Wilson. I’m glad the two most important people in my life finally have the chance to meet.” 

The confession caught him by surprise, especially as he watched MJ stare at the phone like a deer in headlights. But it was true. MJ still mattered to Peter quite a bit. He had a feeling she always would. 

“Uh, I…” MJ stammered, then looked to Peter in silent outrage before mouthing _‘What am I supposed to say?’_

Surprisingly, Wilson saved the moment. “Hi! I’m Wilson! I’ve heard so much about you that I’m kind of surprised you exist. It was almost to the point of too-much-detail-to-be-true, y’know what I mean? But here you are, and you’re real! Petey, I owe you five dollars.” 

“I recall it being twenty dollars,” Peter said loftily. Wilson grunted and neither confirmed nor denied. _Bastard._

“Oh, hah, wow.” MJ’s face was a deep red and she laughed. “Probably not a flattering picture, huh?” 

Peter paled. “What? No, no—” 

“On the contrary,” Wilson stepped up to the plate easily. Peter was admittedly impressed. “He cares very much what you think of him and holds your opinion in high regard. I know he can be a bit reserved about those kinds of things, and I know for sure he’s been very cautious about our introduction at all. He doesn’t have to say as much for it to be obvious, though—you’re important to him.” 

Peter was slack jawed. Part of him wanted to deny it. Mostly he wanted to shove the upsettingly on-point analysis right back under the rug Wilson had dragged it out from under. Part of him knew it was best to just roll with it and confront the truth in the statement later. 

MJ looked oddly misty eyed, though. She gave Peter a wobbly smile and cleared her throat before she spoke again. “I think the same of him. We’d been best friends for years before trying anything. I miss the bastard. Would you tell him to stop hiding himself away from the world?” 

“I’ll do my best, but you know how he can be.” Wilson laughed. 

Peter narrowed his eyes at his phone. “Oh? How’s that?” 

“I know exactly what you mean.” MJ grinned. “Like a cat, right? You can put him on the blanket but it has to be his idea or he won’t stay.” 

“I’m not like a cat,” Peter said indignantly, at the same moment Wilson replied, “oh my God, _exactly._ ” 

‘ _I like him,_ ’ MJ mouthed, pointing exaggeratedly at the phone. An odd twinge of pride battled with the ever increasing guilt of lying. 

Exhaustion won over the pride and guilt, and he acutely felt the hours of sleep he was missing. So instead of listening on pins and needles, he focused on packing up his findings. One stack after another of H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech consumer records. He fell into the lull of the repetitive movement, found himself oddly soothed by hearing MJ and Wilson talking animatedly behind him. 

“So,” MJ’s voice was the first to crack through the lull. 

Peter knew that tone. That was the about-to-be-up-to-something tone. He zipped up his briefcase, then turned to give her a flat look. Wilson had already put up with plenty. Maybe not three hundred dollars worth of plenty, but still. He was starting to feel guilty for that, too. 

Like she always did, MJ ignored the warning. “How did you two meet? Peter doesn’t exactly get out much.” 

Peter’s heart dropped. He opened his mouth to cut Wilson off, to find some sort of excuse to end the call then and there before MJ saw through whatever crock of shit Wilson was about to offer. 

“It’s a funny story, actually.” Wilson didn’t sound like he was being put on the spot. He sounded just as at ease as always. 

Peter’s heart, on the other hand, tried to make a break for it and cold sweat dotted the back of his neck. “Hah, it is, but—” 

“So I’m a telemarketer, right?” Wilson cut Peter off and Peter blinked. Of all the scenarios he had crashing around in his head, telling the truth was not one of the ones he envisioned. “I have a long list of phone numbers I go through every day, selling absolute garbage to anyone foolish enough to have bought H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech equipment in the past ten years or so. On my first day on the job, my first ever call, that’s when I get the unbelievable fortune of calling my baby boy.” 

MJ cooed and gave Peter a conspiratorial smile. Peter returned it weakly. Wilson was crushing it, so there’s no need for the faint feeling Peter has in his elbows and knees. (His heart rate didn’t listen to reason.)

“So he chews me out for a bit, which is fair, y’know? I’m a telemarketer, that's what I expected.” Wilson laughed and Peter frowned at the phone. He’d never considered the amount of berating Wilson must come across daily when he was talking to people other than Peter. It sounded lonely. “But then he surprises me by just talking to me. He eventually lets me sell him a HAM-1750 to avoid making his toast with the oven broiler—a _fire hazard_ , I told him—”

Peter made a strangled noise and ignored the way Wilson chortled in response. 

“—but then he goes on to make me laugh like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Of course that’s no surprise, my baby boy’s the sharpest, quickest wit this side of the Mississippi, and I’m sure you know that.” Wilson dropped the compliments rapidfire. It left Peter dizzy. “But that wasn’t when I knew. This… hah. This is going to sound so stupid.” 

MJ shuffled in close to the phone, eyes soft. “What happened?” 

“It sounds so simple, but it just didn’t end there. He could have let it be an odd blip in his life, he could have gone about the rest of his life and not thought about ol’ Wilson anymore. But he didn’t.” Wilson sounded surprisingly believable. He certainly played the part well. Peter’s eyes couldn’t leave the little call screen of his phone. 

“When our first call dropped, he called to leave me a message assuring me he was okay the second he was able. I thought, sure, that’s thoughtful. Far more than I expected as a telemarketer. But in the message he tells me that he’ll talk to me the next morning,” Wilson laughs. “I thought, sure thing, buddy. No one wants a telemarketer call.” 

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Peter interjected softly. He ignored the big eyes MJ pointed at him. 

“See?” Wilson huffed. “That’s my special guy. For how smart his mouth is, I don’t think he’s so much as smelled the farts of common sense since he let me talk to him again, just like he promised. Then he calls me back later of his own volition and, _hah_. I don’t know. He makes me smile like no one has in years. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop when he realizes he’s the catch of a lifetime and I’m some telemarketer that got stupidly lucky.”

Peter couldn’t look at MJ, even though his periphery told him plenty about her buying the story hook line and sinker. Something was caught in his throat and he coughed to try and shake the feeling. “You make me laugh too, Wilson.” 

“Good. You should laugh more, baby boy.” 

Peter’s heart thudded painfully against his ribs and he surprised himself by just how desperately he wished the gentle affection in Wilson’s tone wasn’t just for show. 

"I'm glad to have met you, Wilson." MJ beamed at Peter. "It's nice to see Peter so happy. I haven't seen him like this since… well. I haven't seen it in a while, is all. It’s nice to see the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders." 

"I'd carry the lot of it for him, if I could." Wilson sounded so honest. 

"Alright, that's enough of that," Peter cut it off before his internal organs could do any more barrel rolls. "I have to get to work now. Talk to you later?" 

"As long as you'll have me," Wilson promised. He was laying it on thick and Peter fought back his smile. 

"Don't promise things you're not willing to give just yet, love." Peter told himself the soft heat in his voice was for show. It wasn't the result of loneliness mixed with a fun and flirty new friendship. 

But Wilson didn't seem to mind. He just chuckled. "I'll give you the whole damn moon. Just say the word baby boy, and it's yours. I know a guy with a great lasso."

Peter laughed. "Good- _bye_ , Wilson." Then, after a pause, "...love you." 

There was a much longer pause and Peter worried he'd pushed too much. That he shouldn't have put Wilson on the spot like that—the man was already doing him an enormous favor, he didn't need to also play stand-in as an object of affection for a sad, lonely man apparently willing to relish any kind of affection he could get. 

"I love you, too," Wilson said. 

"Looking forward to meeting you at the New Years party, Wilson! Don't let Peter talk himself into skipping it!" MJ shot Peter a wink and he gaped at her like an exceptionally inept goldfish while she gathered her purse and spun away. 

The door clicked shut behind her and Wilson waited a moment before speaking. "So that was the ex-fiancée, huh?"

He no longer sounded soft and sweet. Peter swallowed back the disappointment and swapped Wilson off speaker phone. "Yeah. That was MJ."

"She seems great," Wilson spoke slowly, like he wasn't sure if he was welcome in the territory. "So… Why did you make up a boyfriend? Panic? One too many shrooms before work?"

"I'm an idiot and an asshole," Peter sighed and slumped down into his wheely chair. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead gently. The soreness from hitting the desk was already mostly healed even if the crack in the plastic wasn't. 

"Thaaat's not— Well, it might be true, but. I've met a lot of assholes in my life, Peter," Wilson spoke carefully. "I've only met one person who could talk himself out of a mugging and was down to make friends with a telemarketer."

" _Wilson_ , are you telling me we're friends now? Or that I talked you out of mugging me?" Peter did a weak imitation of a flustered Southern belle. "Why, I never!" 

" _Por qué no los dos?_ " Wilson shot back without pause. "You're not an asshole, Petey-pie."

"What about 'idiot'?" 

"I plead the Fifth."

Peter's laugh surprised him, but it was starting to get less surprising the longer Wilson stuck around. 

* * *

Finding Deadpool wasn’t so hard this time around. Maybe he was purposefully making himself easier to find. It certainly spoke volumes to the skill he must have been flexing to avoid Spider-Man before. Perhaps it also spoke to the new “method” he applied: finding a mid-level roof-top and waiting.

An hour or so passed before Spider-Man’s keen hearing picked up the sounds of boots on the fire escape. Deadpool’s head poked up over the edge of the building and he stared at Spider-Man. 

“Are you going to attack first, ask questions _never_ again?” Deadpool sounded somewhere between cautious and snide. Peter’s memory briefly flashed an image of webbing and weapons. He bit back a grin and just stared back at Deadpool. Deadpool pulled himself up further so he could cross his arms over the ledge. “Oh good, no answer. We’re going with the big cryptic bug-eyed stare. Awesome. Iconic, really. That’s super soothing, by the way. Really puts a guy packing more weapons than you have bones at ease.” 

“Is that a threat?” Spider-Man tipped his head to the side. 

“Was that not clear?” Deadpool gestured broadly and babbled on. “It’s a _defensive_ threat. Because you stole my weapons, chased me off a building, broke half my ribs, and you keep _yelling_ at me. That’s so hurtful. And the best defense is a good offense, right? Here I am: just a boy, standing in front of an arachnid, trying to be offensive.” 

Spider-Man snorted. “You’re doing terrific.” 

Deadpool barked a laugh and heaved himself up over the ledge. He spoke even as he swung his leg up and hooked his knee until he had enough leverage to roll onto the roof. “Whatever. You can kick my ass any day, Spidey-babe. I won’t try to pretend I’m not into it.” 

“And they say romance is dead,” Spider-Man returned flatly. 

“Pfah, says who?” Deadpool flopped his arms out to his sides dramatically. “Ain’t nothing out there that could un-alive this ol’ ugly ballsack full of romance juice. Trust me, if there was, I would’ve found it by now.” 

He weakly started humming something that sounded suspiciously like Marvin Gaye (of the mountains-high and rivers-wide variety) and it reminded Peter sharply of Wilson’s humming habit. Wilson, his (sorta) friend, (fake) boyfriend, and (unknowing) solo patrol partner. Poor Wilson didn’t deserve to get upstaged by some foul mouthed mercenary currently replacing “mountain” and “river” with various other _godawful_ nouns. 

He laughed quietly. Peter couldn’t help it. This week had been so bizarre without Deadpool’s shenanigans that it wasn’t hard to resign himself to listening to the world’s worst version of _Mad Libs_. If he hadn’t learned from past acts of pure hubris, he’d swear that things couldn’t possibly get weirder. It put the situation right on that razor thin edge between overwhelming, and suspiciously simple. Really, that thin area of operation was when Spider-Man did his best work. It unlocked a pleasant distance and apathy to war against his ever-raging anxiety until it found something like a truce. 

Spider-Man slid over the folder full of data he’d collected to Deadpool before he thought about it too hard and missed the moment. “Go on. Take a look at that.”

Deadpool sat up and he twisted comically to squint at the folder like he expected it to be a bomb. “When I open this, is it going to jizz webs all over me?” 

“Not without significant foreplay,” Spider-Man said without hesitation nor an ounce of shame. He watched as Deadpool scoffed but opened the folder nonetheless. 

That was the secret behind Spider-Man, the _real_ super power: the confidence that came with the mask. Peter Parker barely managed to convince himself to wear nerdy joke t-shirts, never mind skintight spandex. When he was talking to Wilson he thought he would die from how much blood rushed to his face with his fake “me time” story. But when he was hidden under red and blue? It was like it didn’t count. Peter Parker was there, but distant. Spider-Man was at the front of it all, and Spider-Man wasn’t afraid of anything. 

_It’s a strange feeling,_ Peter thought, _being jealous of yourself._

Deadpool whistled long and low. “This is impressive. You did this all yourself?” 

Spider-Man shrugged. “What do you make of it?”

Leather-gloved hands moved with surprising dexterity as Deadpool turned from page to page. He even brought up a finger to lick the tip out of habit before moving to turn another page. He seemed not to notice the futility of the gesture from behind a leather mask. 

“Well, it looks like you figured out what I did.” Deadpool blew out a sigh and propped his back up against the edge of the roof so he could splay out his legs and spread different papers in front of him. He scratched against one cheek. “Plus and minus a little extra. We know these people aren’t acting voluntarily, that something is affecting them, and that these events seem to be spaced out pretty evenly. That suggests it’s intentional, right? The universe is too much of a fickle bitch to have a consistent pattern with her anomalies. Fate’s freaky, but even she wouldn’t have something this _obvious_ , for lack of better word.” 

“So in all likelihood, someone’s controlling them, right.” Spider-Man nodded. He crawled over to where the papers were spread out and quietly webbed the corners to the roof so they didn’t fly away when a breeze blew. “And that they were all picked off of H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech consumer lists. But here’s the tricky part.” 

He flipped the last page over before webbing it. A list of names and various devices filled the page in a two column table. He tapped a finger on it. Deadpool followed where Spider-Man was pointing. Little creases in his leather mask indicated his brow furrowing. 

“So? No real pattern here, especially with how recent they are. They’re too sporadic, and that’s coming from me. Maybe they all had weirdly timed strokes, sure, but they didn’t have H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech phones— _oh."_ His eye lenses widened. Spider-Man grinned under his mask. “Hey, for no reason whatsoever, which H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech devices have wi-fi capability?”

“ _Ding, ding, ding!_ Well done, Mr. Pool." Spider-Man moved from his crouch to sit on the roof with one leg half curled, the other leg stretched out to the side. He leaned on his palm and fixed Deadpool with a curious look. “Since you got that answer, you have the opportunity to pick and answer another question.” 

“Yeah, I’ll take another in ‘What in the Nasty, Hairy, _Fuck_ is Going On’ for 500, Alex,” Deadpool didn’t miss a beat, eyes not leaving the data in front of him. 

“You’ve chosen ‘What in the Nasty, Hairy— Uh. _You know._ For 500!” Spider-Man cut himself off, gesturing vaguely to replace the less family-friendly word. 

Deadpool cackled. “Almost had you, Trebek.” 

Spider-Man snorted. “Not even close. Do you want to know the question or not?”

“Answer, technically,” Deadpool replied, clearly relishing the chance to be pedantic. “And I’ll bet you five- _hundo_ crispy Ben Frankies that I know what it is.” 

Peter’s brows flew up under his mask and he hesitated at the offer. Was betting on pseudo crime Jeopardy something Spider-Man should do? Unsanctioned gambling was illegal in New York, so that should’ve answered that question. But $50,000 could set Peter up with adequate food for a year and enough extra to send home to May each month. He wasn’t sure if he could even count on Deadpool to be good for the money—

Deadpool either didn’t notice or didn’t care about Peter’s moral and financial crisis. “Because on Jeopardy, the question is the answer. Alex Trebek—totally an alien from an alternate dimension, bee tee dubs—gives you the answer, then you say the question. This is basic Jeopardy knowledge, you filthy millennial." 

Instead of rising to the bait, Spider-Man cupped the hand he wasn’t leaning on around his mouth and mimicked the Daily Double noise. 

Deadpool's grousing fell away immediately. He sat up straighter and bounced with excitement. “Oh fuck! Oh _fuck_ , it’s the Daily Double!” 

It was hard to tell if he was playing or sincere (or both), but it made Spider-Man laugh regardless. "For one _thousand_ dollars, the answer is 'Oscorp, Stark, and Pym.'" 

Like a compulsion, Deadpool blurted, "World's three most overpaid narcissists." 

Spider-Man gave him a thumbs down and blew a raspberry. "Nope. The question was 'Who benefits from H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech devices causing behavioral anomalies _en masse?"_

Deadpool's head tilted to the side. "Hold on. You think H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech is the _victim_ here?"

"I didn't say that." Spider-Man raised his hands defensively. "I don't think they're the beneficiary, is all. Say you're trying to perfect some kind of remote mind control. Would you start with the big stuff?"

Slowly, Deadpool nodded in understanding. "Hell no! That's what the initial villain does, before the surprise plot twist villain steps in and makes everything so much worse. Like the somewhat charming and sympathetic antihero standing in as an antagonist figure that gets used to demonstrate the cruelty of the real antagonist. That way the audience doesn't feel too guilty for watching them get killed, or tortured, or _both —_" 

Spider-Man ignored the tangent. "You'd start with the little stuff. Like a frog in slowly heating water. You want to see how much you can get away with."

"Like… stealing staples. Or—"

"A company tablet, or a casefile from the office, or dine and dashing." Spider-Man tapped his finger on each case in succession. "Easier to do when the signal is strong, like on a phone. Harder to manage with stuff like this other list—but not impossible." 

"Huh." Deadpool leaned back, taking it all in. " _Huh._ "

Spider-Man laughed. "Is the Merc with the Mouth speechless? I'm flattered."

"No, _you_ shut up, I'm thinking, hold on," Deadpool held up a finger. "That explains why I couldn't find any connection between Weapon X and H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech…"

"You think it's Weapon X?" Spider-Man tilted his head to the side. 

“What?” Deadpool stiffened, his back going straight as a yardstick. "No I don’t. No. Who's Weapon X? World’s shittiest boyband?" 

"Nice." Spider-Man bit back another laugh. “It’s okay. I know what Weapon X is.”

He had meant to move forward to pluck up a particular page, but Deadpool snapped them all up and shuffled them together. He tapped them on the roof to neaten the stack before sliding them back under the plastic sleeve embedded in the cheap folder Peter may or may not have repurposed from his undergrad days. 

“That’s about as far from okay as things can get, Webs.” For once there was nothing jovial about Deadpool’s tone. No hint of a joke, no set up, no punchline. He sounded tired. It was more off-putting than it should have been. “I fucked up. Lost sight of what I was supposed to be doing. That’s on me, right? Not you. So no blaming yourself for this one.” 

His spidey senses flared up as Deadpool reached for one of his katanas. Spider-Man _thwipped_ webbing to catch his wrist and yanked it with what was probably more strength than necessary. Deadpool’s whole torso twisted as he went down without so much as a yelp. He landed on his back hard enough to force the air out of him, but he didn’t move to defend himself. He just stared up at the now standing Spider-Man. Wide lenses met impossibly expressive smaller ones. 

“What exactly was going to not be my fault?” Spider-Man pressed the bottom of his boot to the webbing line and smashed the synthetic material into the rough grooves of the roof until he felt it catch. “And why did it require your sword?” 

“Just some light maiming.” Deadpool shrugged. There was a tiny spark of his normal humor there, but it was a fraction of what Spider-Man was used to. For some reason, that sounded alarm bells much louder than his spidey senses did. “I know your healing factor isn’t the greatest, and like I said before: you’re my hero. I super don’t want to have to take you out of commission, but I will if it means preventing you from ever getting involved with Weapon X.” 

Spider-Man’s jaw dropped and his lenses flared wider as he struggled to figure out what he was looking at. Deadpool’s wrist was firmly stuck to the roof but both of them knew perfectly well that that was symbolic at best. He had one whole hand still free and enough weapons to defend a fort for at least a week. Spidey senses still warned him of a faint threat, something just slightly higher than the barely noticeable hum that came from Deadpool’s company. Even now, at its strongest, it was drastically lesser than most mundane threats Spider-Man faced on a daily basis. 

Sure, he couldn’t smell heartbeats or whatever the hell it was Daredevil cryptically hinted at, but it sure vouched for Deadpool’s intentions that even when he openly declared his intent of ‘light maiming’, Peter’s spidey senses just weren’t worried. 

“I believe you,” Spider-Man spoke quietly, surprised by his own words. Doubly so by the honesty in them, as he stared down at a man that he should’ve been considering turning in to the police. “I understand that you think you’re protecting me—” 

“I should’ve shot a little lower, huh?” Deadpool scoffed. His tone had lightened, but there was still a heavy exhaustion to it that the humor didn’t quite cover. “Yeah, I get that a lot. ‘Aim lower, Deadpool,’ or ‘not that low, Deadpool,’ or ‘that’s my dick, Deadpool—’” 

Spider-Man snorted out a laugh, cutting him off. He released the webbing trailing from his wrist and dropped down to sit cross legged a foot or so away from Deadpool’s head. He leaned over and peered curiously at the solemnity that still haunted Deadpool’s mask. For how simple the construction of it seemed, he must have really put thought into how to shape it to allow so much of himself to show through so blatantly. It damn near defeated the point of a mask entirely. 

“Listen, I get it.” Spider-Man swallowed thickly. “I’ve done the same. Well, tried to.” 

He fell quiet, his brow furrowing as the story he wanted to tell hung on the tip of his tongue. In an odd show of respect, Deadpool waited patiently. Spider-Man nodded gratefully. 

“When I first became Spider-Man, I was so excited. I felt unstoppable.” He couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face underneath the mask. “Like something out of a comic book, y’know? Some little dweeb suddenly able to stand up to his bullies and fight for truth, justice, and the American way or whatever.” 

“Hah! _Like_ a comic book. You have no idea, do you?” Deadpool sounded a little more lively and Spider-man privately counted it as a victory. “I’ll grant you that this particular arc is more text-based than our usual—”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Spider-Man pressed on before the tangent took control. “I was so excited that I spent a lot of time showing off to my friends. Looking back at it, it was probably more accurate to say that I was running through _Jackass-_ style crash tests in places where I knew my friends would be watching. Testing out the new powers, y’know? There’s nothing like taking a running leap off a skyscraper to really incentivize gaining mastery over the delicate art of sticking to things.”

His voice slowed and the animation drained away slowly the closer he got to the part where he knew his story took a turn for the worse. He cleared his throat a few times and ignored the heavy pounding of his heart against his ribs. 

“But, they, uh…” Peter stammered. He pressed his lips closed, swallowed harshly, and tried again. “They weren’t, uhm…” 

He came to a complete halt. 

It was further than he’d ever gotten before (in that he was able to speak it out loud when another human was within hearing range), which he supposed was progress. The block was unmistakable, though. The fist-sized rock that lodged in his throat and sealed all sound away from the rest of the world made itself known with sharp edges tearing into soft flesh. 

No words got past that feeling. 

Not _ever._

“They weren’t the only ones watching, huh?” Deadpool was kind enough to step in while Peter helplessly let the silence drag on and on. 

Peter nodded and rubbed at his throat. He tried to cough, shook his head, ran his hand over his face, everything. The rock stayed put. 

“You know,” Deadpool stared up at him, his gaze upside down just from where he was laying flat. His casual tone didn’t betray any pity, no condescension that Peter half expected from another super who had been active in the field for longer. “I get it. Sort of. Lost my fiancée that way. Because of this shit, I mean. Kinda.”

Deadpool gestured broadly at his suit. 

Spider-Man tilted his head. His vocal chords let him out of the choke hold enough that he could mutter a couple words. “Hero work?” 

“Hero work, _hah!"_ Deadpool’s laugh was loud enough to cut through the tension of the night air. “I’m not a hero, Webs. I’m a mercenary. I was even before I was Deadpool. Lots of similar workplace hazards, if you can believe it. Total lack of benefits or any kind of 401k. I guess the perk is being able to stick it to the man with some casual tax evasion, but what are you gonna do, right? Mercenaries make some pretty nasty enemies, too. You guys put baddies in jail, I put them in the ground. Who knew so many people were partial to vengeance and killing loved ones as a means of coping, am I right?” 

“Probably because killing is objectively bad and wrong,” Spider-Man said dryly. “Vengeance isn’t justified either, but—”

Deadpool shook his head and waved a hand. “No, you’re not getting it. There’s no reasonable reaction to going through shit like that. It doesn’t exist.” 

Spider-Man found himself at a loss for words as he stared dumbly down at the red and black mask meeting his gaze evenly. He squinted, lips pursed, then opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out. 

“...Therapy?” he tried. 

Deadpool laughed again. “Maybe! But therapy means getting your irrational bullshit garbage shuffled in the right direction. Not that it _doesn’t_ happen.” 

“What?” Spider-Man’s lenses narrowed as he tried to make sense of what he was hearing. “That’s not true. Of course there are reasonable reactions to loss—” 

“Not really.” Deadpool shrugged. “It’s a shock to most people, every time. A great loss, but… it shouldn’t be. We’re all going to die sometime. Most of us at least.” He paused and scratched at his sternum, adjusting the way the leather rested. “I guess not even most of us, the more mutants and heroes keep poking our heads out like the world’s most spandex-clad game of whack-a-mole. Wolvie and I? Never gonna die. Hardly fair, ain’t it? Not to sound like a four-year-old, but that’s the whole point: it’s not _faaair._ ” 

It made sense in a weird sort of way. Spider-Man frowned. Just because a man notorious for making no sense was actually making sense didn’t mean Peter wasn’t going to pick a fight with it, though. “It doesn’t have to be so unfair. We can change things. Make the world better.”

“Haven’t you seen Hamilton? _Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints,_ ” Deadpool sounded like he was smiling underneath his mask as he sing-songed the quote.

“ _It takes, and it takes, and it takes,_ ” Peter continued the line quietly and cleared his throat. He looked up at the lit up buildings that boxed them in. 

“That’s the trick, right? We don’t want to give anything up.” Deadpool gestured with his hands as he spoke. He boxed the air, waved off points he wanted to dismiss, pointed for emphasis, and drew his grasp in closer as if physically wrestling the ideas into clarity. It was captivating. “So we fight as hard as we can to make sure things can’t be taken from us. People who want vengeance on me really just want their shitty pedophilic murderer friend or relative back, or whatever moldy human-shaped pile of snot I buried.”

There was the malice Spider-Man read about when doing his homework on Deadpool. The way he bit out the words, the cavalier way he talked about ending a life, all of it was there and building real life evidence that maybe Spider-Man’s intuitions about him were wrong. 

“Beating my teeth out isn’t going to return what was taken. No shit, right?” Deadpool snorted. “Can you imagine? Like some kind of necromancy drive-through where the currency is Stab Deadpool. Or Shoot Deadpool. Or—”

“If you have a point,” Spider-Man growled as he moved to his feet, “...get to it.” 

Deadpool finally sat up and turned to face Spider-Man properly. He made a frustrated sound. “Whoever took your friends? They saw you were going to take something from them. Just like you do every time you put on the suit and save lives, they decided no more taking was allowed. So they took first. It’s unfair, but if you can count on one thing from people, it’s that they will do everything they can to prevent the things they want being taken from them.”

“Why?” Spider-Man spat the word a little more harshly than he should have. He could taste bile at the back of his tongue. “Why does anyone have to accept unfairness like that as being equal? Someone wants cash from a register, so someone’s uncle gets taken? Is that equal to wanting your family to live to old age? Is that how you see the world around you? Objectives and wants that are all equal? That we should all learn to accept all the death and loss as inevitable parts of the human experience?” 

“As nice as that would be for mercenary work that’s not what I’m saying, babe—, er, sorry.” Deadpool choked off the endearment then huffed. His voice fell to something soft. “I’m saying that for the most part, everyone takes something. Even heroes. Heroes like _you,_ Webbed Wonder, are rare. You put on the suit because you want to _give_.” 

“You’re not making any sense,” Spider-Man snapped and aimed his web-shooter at Deadpool. Disappointment tasted bitter and he was already berating himself for thinking an alliance with a killer could have been possible. “Whatever crazy you spout to justify your killing—” 

“Spider-Man gives a fuck!” Deadpool interrupted loudly and it caught Peter off guard. “He gives people safety and trust. He gives New York something to be proud of. I don’t want to see that change.” 

“What?” Spider-Man sputtered. “Why would that—?”

“Because there’s nothing you can _give_ that will stop Weapon X,” Deadpool snapped. “I’m more than willing to do some light maiming to make sure you’re never, _ever_ on their radar. Hate me if you want, I get it. I take, too. I plan to take everything Weapon X has. As long as I’m alive, and that looks like it’s going to be for-fucking-ever, I’ll be dedicated to wiping Weapon X and everything it spawns off the map. That’s about as _take-_ y as it gets. I’ll take the whole shitting world before I let _Spider-Man_ stop giving.”

Spider-Man blinked, stunned. 

But Deadpool wasn’t done. 

“The world doesn’t need me. And it needs Weapon X about as much as anyone needs a sandpaper dildo. But the world needs you. The world needs someone to show it how to give. Fuck, _I_ need to know it’s even possible!” Deadpool pulled a knife free finally, but Peter barely registered it. His spidey senses didn’t think it notable and he was too preoccupied by the words rattling around the air like angry hornets. Deadpool slipped the blade into the band of his glove and sliced the leather away roughly. The webbing attached to the glove held it in place as a brutally scarred hand was pulled free. Spider-Man’s breath caught. 

“Some work is ugly. Some _people_ are ugly. I oughta know, I’m one of them, eh?” Deadpool laughed and waggled his scarred-up hand at Spider-Man, like some kind of nightmarish version of a coquettish wave. “But you aren’t. So stay the fuck away from Weapon X, or I’ll show you what ugly looks like—and trust me, it gets a lot fucking worse than _this_ . Got it, Spidey? _Comprendes?_ Nod your stupid bug-eyed face if you understand—”

It was Spider-Man’s turn to catch Deadpool off guard. He walked forward and calmly took the bare hand that was being used to threaten him. He saw Deadpool reach for his gun out of the corner of his sight and firmly ignored the shrill warning from his spidey senses. Instead, he gently turned the hand over in his own gloved hands, running his fingers over the divots of the scarring. He watched with rapt attention as the tissue shifted slowly, healing then bursting into dark bruises, reds, and building up white ridges that rose and fell like the tide. 

“Your name was Wade Wilson before you went by Deadpool, right?” Spider-Man spoke calmly and didn’t react to the way Deadpool’s whole person went rigid. “Sorry, you don’t have to confirm that. It didn’t seem like your identity was very secret and I wasn’t asking that to out you. I read up on Wade Wilson, is all. On who he was before and after his encounter with Weapon X.” 

Deadpool flicked the safety off his gun and aimed it at Spider-Man’s chest. It lifted and settled with every intake of breath, a cold and heavy weight that promised pain he wouldn’t recover from for a while. It would certainly take him out of the equation while Deadpool decided to address Weapon X. While Peter Parker screamed alongside his spidey senses, Spider-Man’s confidence kept him steady. He held firm to the fact that Deadpool hadn’t pulled his hand away. 

“Anyone ever tell you not to put armed enemies on edge?” Deadpool’s tone was a little too sharp. “Or not to fuck with strangers? I think maybe you missed the stranger-danger school assembly—” 

“Wade Wilson was pretty young when he was diagnosed with cancer. Barely twenty-four, right?” Spider-Man glanced up for confirmation he didn’t expect to get. “Stage four pancreatic. A death sentence, really. But instead of laying down and dying, he signed himself away to a super shady organization named Weapon X. I looked into it a little, but I could _not_ figure out why a guy with a dishonorable discharge from the Marines—for disobeying orders, no less—would want to sign up for a group that turns people into indiscriminate killing machines.” 

Deadpool made a choked noise and pressed the gun a little harder against Spider-Man’s chest. His hand finally twitched as if to pull away. Spider-Man made no effort to keep it in place. Again, Deadpool surprised him by leaving it in place. 

“That’s where stuff gets extra weird, right? For all the data about how heartless this mercenary guy is supposed to be, and for all the frankly suspicious amount of evidence I found of his willing submission to Weapon X,” Spider-Man’s every nerve was screaming at him to run, to punch the man in front of him, to rip the gun away, anything. He ignored it. “For all that Weapon X regarded Wade Wilson’s triumph over cancer as a medical success, there wasn’t a single recorded instance of Wade’s cooperation. Quite the contrary. He burned the place to the ground with himself still inside.” 

He watched as Deadpool—and whatever was left of Wade Wilson—struggled. He gently squeezed the hand he held between them both, offering a buoy for him to cling to in the storm. The gun lilted to the side just barely, and his spidey senses came down a notch. 

“The world showed a scared man exactly how monsters are made. His own front row telling of Frankenstein,” Spider-Man said quietly. 

The gun fell away completely and Deadpool laughed in a way that contained no humor at all. He yanked his hand and tucked it up under his other arm. “Actually Frankenstein was the mad scientist. You’re thinking of Frankenstein’s monster—” 

“No, I’m not.” Spider-Man shook his head and smiled sadly. “Frankenstein’s creation wasn’t the monster. Frankenstein was. His creation was trying to right a wrong as best he could. Wade Wilson slipped off public record after the building burned down, presumed dead. Deadpool cropped up shortly after. Could be a coincidence, but I still thought you’d like the story.”

“The story of how I lost everything?” Deadpool snarled. He pushed into Spider-Man’s space. “This Wade Wilson of yours was a piece of cancerous shit to begin with, and then Weapon X—”

“A story about how a rather unpleasant man recognized that there are some wrongs in the world that even he wouldn’t turn a blind eye to.” Spider-Man swallowed. “About how a man that was so horribly wronged that no one would have blamed him for giving in to become one of the enslaved super soldiers Weapon X made their business selling. No one would have blamed him for easing his suffering. Everyone takes, right? He could have taken the small comfort of not being tortured, so long as he cooperated.”

“No,” Deadpool snapped. “No, he couldn’t have.” 

Spider-Man nodded. 

“Yeah. He didn’t. Instead he chose to give. He gave the one thing he had left—his life. In doing so, he single-handedly destroyed the facility Weapon X had managed to keep away from the reach of thousands of others that tried to oppose them in the past.” Spider-Man counted off the list on his fingers. “Heroes, governments, or even just people who’d been wronged and wouldn’t be quiet. It didn’t matter. They seemed unstoppable. Until Wade Wilson, at least.”

Deadpool moved away from Spider-Man so abruptly that Peter felt the abrupt loss of heat from proximity. He tapped the barrel of his gun against his thigh. He paced and muttered to himself, far enough under his breath that even Spider-Man couldn’t catch more than every other word. Something about ‘not a hero.’ It didn’t take a genius to guess the rest. 

“Maybe Deadpool isn’t.” Spider-Man shrugged in concession. “Had a few rough years there, not gonna lie. Did you know SHIELD listed you as ‘an incredible force that would make an invaluable ally’ for your first few appearances? It was only when they gave up trying to earn your loyalty that they listed you as an enemy.” 

“I’m not joining the Geek Squad.” Deadpool’s voice was venomous as he rounded on Spider-Man. “Is that what this is? Did that one-eyed trouser snake send you? I bet he thought if he sent New York City’s precious darling, I’d cave in. Is that right? You’re fucking ten-ply, bud—” 

“Pff, _no._ ” Spider-Man laughed and raised his hands defensively. “I’ve told SHIELD to get lost every time they’ve sent their weird little recruitment campaign my way.”

“That’s right,” Deadpool spoke slowly. He stared Spider-Man down. “You’re all _dramatic air-brushed lone wolf_ , instead of the classic _three-wolf-moon_. Didn’t the Avengers and Defenders both turn you down?”

“I turned them both down,” Spider-Man tried to keep the petulance out of his voice. “It was a mutual thing.”

“Yeah, sure it was.” Deadpool was still rambling. “Fantastic Five sounds alright I guess, but think of all the rebranding—” 

“I’m not with _anyone_ ,” Spider-Man interjected indignantly. Then Peter’s eyes went wide and he stammered. “Wait. I mean that I’m not paired with—hold on, that’s worse. I meant I’m not _grouped_ with anyone—”

“Wow. Just going to invalidate all those polyamorous relationships out there, huh?” Deadpool whistled low. “All while managing the world’s most uncomfortable flirting technique. They call you ‘amazing’ for a reason, huh?” 

“I have a boyfriend, actually!” Spider-Man lied. He ignored the sudden litany of unimpressed thoughts he aimed at himself internally. If he’d had a shoulder angel, he would’ve flicked the bastard off. At least the lie was getting some _serious_ mileage.

Deadpool scoffed loudly. “What, you think I don't? I’ll have you know I am off the market, Spidey-babe.” 

“Fine!” Peter stepped closer into Deadpool’s space and threw his arms out to the side in a challenging gesture. “So we both have boyfriends! Big whoop!”

“And I’ll have you and your perfect ass know I’m extremely committed to my—”

“I don’t care!” Spider-Man yelled. “It doesn’t matter!” 

“Nope, what matters is—” Deadpool returned the favor by crowding into Spider-Man’s space, voice raised to match. He also pointed the gun back at Spider-Man’s chest. “—I am _still_ not letting you do something unbelievably stupid. I promised myself I wouldn’t drag Spider-Man into this. I would never let myself hear the end of it. And that’s ‘never’ in the eternal sense if this meatbag keeps carrying me around until the sun explodes or _w_ _hatever._ ” 

Even years later, Peter couldn’t for the life of him explain where the sudden surge of instinct came from. It certainly wasn’t his spidey senses. Those were screaming at him to make use of both fight _and_ flight. But Spider-Man’s jaw set in that way it did when he squared up against an enemy he knew he could beat.

“The point is that Wade Wilson may have led a pretty rough life, but he died a hero.” Spider-Man grabbed the gun with both hands, relishing the surprise written all over Deadpool’s mask when he didn’t pull the weapon away. Instead he centered it right over his heart and pressed it firmly against himself. “I happen to believe that _everyone_ can be saved. It’s a gamble to believe, but like Wade once did, I found out that this is the hill I’m willing to die on.” 

He paused to take a breath. He wasn’t sure when breathing had gotten so difficult. Maybe the weight of the gun held by a madman was heavier than he’d bargained for. It was too late to back out now. All or nothing, he thought. Spider-Man grit his teeth and spoke quietly. 

“So if you really want to make sure I don’t get involved, then you’re right. You’re going to have to shoot me now.” Spider-Man gripped the barrel. He pulled it forward hard enough to rack the gun and load the chamber. Deadpool’s trigger finger immediately stretched out of range of the trigger itself. _Good._ So Spider-Man pushed harder. “I think Deadpool could be more than just saved. I think Deadpool could be a hero, too. Like Wade once was. But if you want the world’s biggest ‘I told you so’ then prove me wrong here and now. _Shoot me._ ” 

As their collective silence settled over both men, the sounds of the city rushed up to fill in the gaps. Distantly, both Spider-Man and Peter Parker wished they had more height to work with as they stared up at Deadpool. It was hard to cut an intimidating figure when there was a good third of a foot of height difference. 

“Fuck,” Deadpool whispered. Peter’s heart dropped down to street level for a moment and all he could think of was of all the deaths he could’ve come into, this was by far the stupidest end to Spider-Man. Then Deadpool swore again and clicked the safety back into place. He shoulder checked Spider-Man as he passed him, but he was holstering his gun. “Fuck. Fuck, shit, fuckity, fuck-balls, clown-fucker, fucking _bullshit._ ”

“Watch your language,” Spider-Man spoke up weakly, still reigning in the depressing slide-show of his life flashing before his eyes. 

“ _Suck a cock._ ” Deadpool retorted before he stomped towards the fire escape. He stopped to do a quick inventory of all his weapons, then remembered his glove and tipped his head back to groan. He stomped back to the glove, glaring daggers at Spider-Man as he took out his knife again and knelt to try and saw the fabric free. “Or what-the-fuck-ever your boyfriend has in his fucking pants. Cissexism is no fucking joke.” 

“Noted,” Spider-Man said dryly. It sounded pretty confident for someone who was only just regaining feeling in his knees. “So are we doing an official team up versus Weapon X or do I have to keep worrying about ‘light maiming?’”

“You should always be worried about light maiming,” Deadpool snapped. “That’s just responsible superhero practice. Maybe a first aid kit would ruin the sexy lines of the suit, but it’ll look an awful lot more attractive when you’re trying to figure out if it was kidneys you only needed one of or lungs.” 

“Definitely kidneys.” 

“Shut up!” Deadpool pointed the blade of his knife at Spider-Man. This time, his spidey senses didn’t even twitch. A smile started to spread under Spider-Man’s mask. “We can team up if and only fucking if you stop webbing my shit to rooftops. I sew this piece of shit myself and it’s just fucking rude.”

“Only if you promise to leave the guns and bombs at home—” 

“Don’t push your fucking luck,” Deadpool warned. Sure enough, there was a little twinge in the spidey sense department. 

Instead of being alarmed like he should have been, Spider-Man just laughed. “Yeah, alright. We can talk about that later.” 

He ignored Deadpool’s constant stream of vitriol and knelt on the rooftop beside him. His thumb delicately rotated a couple pieces on his web shooter. When he pressed the release button, a small dribble of clear blue liquid sunk into the synthetic polymer. Like cotton candy in water, the webbing dissolved easily. He clicked the cartridge back into its default position, then held his hand out to Deadpool. 

“So what do you say? Official team-up?” 

Deadpool squinted back at him like he was torn between yelling some more or just punching Spider-Man. It was a look Spider-Man got a lot. 

“Yeah, fuck it, I _guess._ ” Deadpool snatched his ripped up glove and shoved it into one of his multiple pouches. A brief flick of Spider-Man’s gaze to the pouch’s contents told him that it was… glitter? He didn’t have much time to mull it over as the little snap clicked closed. Deadpool took Spider-Man’s hand forcefully and shook hard. “We’re a fucking team up. Are you happy now? Creepy-crawly little menace.” 

Spider-Man grinned. “That’s the spirit.” He stood up and used the opportunity to pull Deadpool to his feet, too.

“Fuck, the strength is never going to get less hot,” Deadpool muttered and Peter went fifty shades of red under his mask. 

“You have a _boyfriend!_ ” he snapped. 

“I know, I know!” Deadpool raised his hands defensively. “What now, Spidey? You gonna just lecture me about my life, or do you have an actual plan to go with your _unbelievably stupid_ stunts?” 

“They’re not stupid if they work,” Spider-Man snarked back. Good old snark. It always had his back when he needed a distraction. He stretched his arms up over his head and rolled one of his ankles. “I’ll read you in on the rest of it tomorrow night, eleven. Meet on the rooftops at North Brother Island.” 

“Wait, _what_ island?” Deadpool looked as exasperated as he sounded. “A whole island? You can’t give me a cross street? Is this even in New York—?”

“Just get there.” Spider-Man smiled, took a step back until the ledge of the roof butted against his calves. “I’ll find you.” 

He let himself freefall off the building and let the adrenaline of the encounter work itself out as he plummeted. One well placed _thwip_ later and he swung away from the rooftop where his newest ally had tried to kill him. 

It really was a shame he couldn’t tell Wilson. Between that and the mugging-friend, Wilson would probably lose his damn mind.

* * *

Getting yelled at, shoulder-checked, threatened with knives, threatened with _guns_ , or otherwise fearing for his life was pretty much par for the course for Spider-Man. Despite the crackle of static that wouldn’t leave his skin, the encounter with Deadpool hadn’t been remarkable. It was what was supposed to follow that he was nervous about. 

If his plan on North Brother Island worked, he would have a sufficient way to dull his capacity to be a threat, and muffle his spidey sense enough that he could identify it without losing control. With Daredevil, Jessica, and Deadpool all present, he could test himself against their abilities and see if he needed to be any further incapacitated. Ultimately, he needed to be able to follow the trail his spidey senses alerted him to without being as overwhelmed as he was during his and Deadpool’s first team up. 

That didn’t detract from the uncomfortable idea that he was essentially seeking out his own kryptonite. The paranoia in the back of his head was staunchly against it, but he couldn’t think of any alternative without bowing out from the fight. And that wasn’t an option. 

However, as he stared at his acquired stash, the idea that he might accidentally stumble into such a kryptonite in the future seemed pretty unlikely.

He tugged a hand through hopelessly messy hair, scratched at his stubble, and pursed his lips. Gracing his kitchen table (read: a large moving box he upended near-ish to the kitchen) was nothing short of an arsenal of intoxicating liquids, including: four bottles of 151 proof off-brand grain alcohol, three mason jars of homemade moonshine, a bottle of absinthe, a bottle of generic NyQuil, a bottle of generic DayQuil, a bottle of night-time benadryl, and a translucent jug of suspect orange liquor he finally accepted from a nice lady in the Bronx. (He didn’t speak a word of Spanish, but that didn’t stop her from talking _at_ him while shoving the jug in his arms.) 

The worst part? He still wasn’t sure if it would be enough. Even the Asgardian booze at the Avenger’s New Year’s party from the year before only made him feel a little buzzed. Anxiety hummed throughout his whole body, going out of its way to remind him of how he’d had to be restrained from hurting an innocent woman. 

Like the cherry on top, Peter reached into his last shopping back and pulled out a plastic bottle full of antacid tablets. 

A middle aged man pictured on the front gave him a cheerful thumbs up. 

Peter grimaced. 

He dropped the plastic bag on the floor, jumped up and stuck his fingers to the ceiling. He kicked his sneakers off, pressed his bare feet to the cool white paint, and started to pace. His burner phone fell out of his pocket as soon as he was standing upright, but he caught it before he even realized what it was. 

The little screen was blank, announcing the same lack of notifications it had been all night. Nearly half past five in the morning Wilson still hadn’t called. He’d tried to dial out about an hour prior but he got Wilson’s work inbox. He’d hung up before the answering message got two words in. 

It wasn’t like he could just tell Wilson what was wrong, why he was so twitchy. No one was allowed in on Peter Parker’s secret. No one. It wasn’t negotiable. He could lie, maybe, but it made guilt churn in his stomach to consider it. The guilt crept upwards like a sickly imitation of heartburn to settle in his chest. He shouldn’t have brought Wilson into his life at all, if he was honest. His memory flickered through a horrible slideshow of too many close calls with MJ, of his talk with Harry at the cafe, of Uncle Ben staring lifelessly up into the night, of Gwen. 

Peter crouched and squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to breathe through the familiar waves of panic. He pressed his head between his knees and curled his hands over the back of his neck. The cool weight of the silent cell phone was both a comfort on his skin and a harsh reminder: 

For all that Spider-Man was brave, Peter Parker was a coward.

  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, baby.
> 
> My betas (and timeshare owners of my whole moldy heart): 
> 
> [Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glazedsun/pseuds/glazedsun)
> 
> [Traffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TLaw/pseuds/TLaw)
> 
> [Emi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualbarry/pseuds/bisexualbarry)
> 
> [Hanuko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HanukoYoukai/pseuds/HanukoYoukai)
> 
> [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe)
> 
> [Mika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/pseuds/Y_ellow)
> 
> And El, and Joe.
> 
> You all keep me motivated.
> 
> Thank you, thank you. 

So _maybe_ Wade had been thinking about the webslinger non-stop since their last deeply confusing rendezvous. Not, like, a weird amount. Not every minute of every day. Sometimes he was asleep. And if he dreamed about Spider-Man, well, he couldn’t control his subconscious. (He’d tried, lord he’d tried. It had ended in a messy custody battle over his occipital lobe and three years of his life Wade didn’t want to talk about.)

The point was that he wasn’t being a creep. He just had to figure out how in the fuck he was meant to team up with the shiniest, most golden, _heroic_ damn hero out of the whole pantheon of big damn heroes. Think about it! Every hero had at least a little bit of a smudge on their record, right? Black Widow had the red in her ledger. Hulk kept destroying Harlem. Captain America had a soft spot the exact shape of an internationally feared assassin. Iron Man was somehow well into his late thirties before he realized that weapons of war do, in fact, kill people. Everyone had a smudge. 

_Except Spider-Man_. 

Then there was Deadpool, who had less of a smudge and more a series of brief flecks where the smudgy goop cleared up to give the vague impression of a vigilante. Like one of those newspaper trick images that if you stared at it just long enough, the colors would squish together and rearrange from a nightmarish unkillable cancer-man and into a sad guy in red and black that deeply misguided people called heroic. Sometimes. _Occasionally_. And even then they seemed wary about it. 

It was less like a yin-yang balance each other out situation and more like a dog covered in mud slipping and sliding its way into an immaculate house, a split second away from shaking it all out and ruining the couch. There was no way Wade was going to be doing anything but nosediving Spider-Man’s whole vibe, so it was honestly the least he could do to make sure he was at least competent back-up. And _maybe_ that led to him watching video after Youtube video of Spider-Man clips New Yorkers captured on their shitty phones. One thing lead to another and—

Listen, Wade was just doing his research! And it was _totally_ research. The seventy-or-so dollars of purchased figurines, clap-on lamp that played an audio recording of someone whispering _‘thwip’_ when activated, and the body pillow were all part of his very, very serious research. Never let it be said that Deadpool didn’t take team ups seriously, alright? Nothing but super seriousness for super team-ups. 

_Spider-Man_ , however, seemed to think it was just fine to leave his new partner in crime wholly in the dark about what exactly his plans were. Partner in crime? Pfft, more like a partner in _anti_ -crime. Partner in heroics! And maybe if he played his cards right, life partner. 

Hey, a boy can dream. That ‘Happy Ending’ tag up there had to count for something.

Which was why Wade knew without a shadow of a doubt that his mysterious North Brother Island meet-up with Spider-Man was going to be fine. Totally. Nothing could possibly go wrong, Wade mused, blissfully failing to find a piece of wood to knock on. Not that it mattered because it was going to be _fine_. Only an absolute moron could spectacularly fuck up despite having a full few days to plan a secret team-up at one of the few places in New York City that could be accurately described as ‘remote’. And it wasn’t like Spider-Man was stupid. Tactically speaking, it was Spider-Man’s smarts that won him most of his victories. 

It certainly wasn’t his sub-par fighting, in Wade’s not-so-popular-but-still-right opinion. Sure, the spindly menace had all sorts of flips and tricks up his lack-of-sleeves. Not to mention he was so bendy (in ways that Wade definitely shouldn’t think about during working hours), but that stuff only mattered if you knew how to use it. The way Spider-Man heaved himself bodily into fights was what gave him away. It was enough to be noticeable on footage of the hero in motion. But now that Wade had seen him in action in person? He was _certain_ of it. Spider-Man was self trained, if he was trained _at all_. 

That precognitive skill of his wasn’t just neat, it was probably all that was keeping him alive. Fuck, if you gave a _poodle_ similarly sharp instinct paired with precognitive abilities, at least the poodle would bite its target _where it meant to_. Instead of falling mid-swing, plummeting face first in an alley, then getting up and punching at empty air. If Bronx Grandma had even an ounce of fight in her, Spidey would’ve been a goner. What an anticlimactic end to a brilliant young hero. 

All of which to say: Spidey was smart. He wouldn’t _plan_ for a total disaster. He just might try to pick a fight with a wall again. After all, the vast majority of Spidey’s slip-ups came from being outgunned, out-manned, out-numbered, but never out-planned.

Wade would certainly feel a lot better about all of it if the aforementioned precognition hadn’t nearly knocked Spider-Man out of commission in that Bronx alleyway. He probably had a good reason for keeping Deadpool in the dark, sure, but it made Wade twitchy. 

Twitchy enough that it was maybe, sort of, just a teensy bit impacting the quality of his work.

He’d already snapped at a few callers (“No, Susan, I don’t think buying a fourth router is going to fix your slow internet. Why? Because you refuse to upgrade beyond your grandfathered rate of 100kbs per second. What? No, it’s not a _‘killer bite’_ —”) which had warranted a mildly disappointed chat from his manager, Mark. Wade refused to make that a regular occurrence. Mark deserved better. 

Wade scowled. He was thinking an awful lot about _deserving_ lately, for some reason. A reason that looked a whole lot like Spider-Man on a rooftop, charging Deadpool to be like the heroes he claimed to look up to. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth as he picked up the next call. Stupid undercover job requiring stupid undercover work. He barely wanted to be Wade Wilson, and here he was pretending to be Wilson Johnson. What kind of stupid name was _Wilson Johnson?_ Weasel basically named him Dick Dick, and boy did he feel every inch of it

“Uh… Hello? Is anyone there?” said a confused voice in his headset. He must have answered a call. 

"Hi, what do you _want?_ " Wade snapped. 

Probably not his best work. 

Mark sent a little grimacing emoji via their chat. The icon indicating manager supervision on the line flashed ominously in the corner. Wade groaned audibly. Judging from the shrill _‘how dare you_ — _!’_ ringing in his ears, that was the wrong call. 

“Time of death, whatever the fuck time it is. She’s dead, Jim,” Wade declared. He took inordinate delight in holding down the hang up button until it shut off his phone altogether. He slumped forward onto his elbows, face in his hands as he watched the 'Mark is typing…' animation taunt him from the bottom of the chat window. 

The wait was killing him. 

If anything could kill him, Wade was pretty sure it would be large quantities of _waiting._ Here lies Wade Winston Wilson, dead of ‘Will You Just Hurry The _Fuck_ Up?’ disease—ripped away from the world at the ripe old age of ’Spit It Out Already, Jesus Christ, Are You Typing On T9 Or Something?”

The typing stopped and Wade squinted. 

**Mark:** _take a break! evry1 gets overwhelmed at first. its normal. wnt 2 talk about it?_

While working at a H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech call center was certainly stressful, somehow Wade doubted ‘normal’ was an adequate descriptor for his _unique circumstances._

But who knows! To quote the condescending twin burros that gazed into his soul from the break room wall, ‘ _Everyone carries similar burdens you cannot see. Be nice.’_ Perhaps infiltrating a tech conglomerate under the alias of ‘Wilson Johnson’ was a classic résumé builder these days. It wouldn’t be that hard to sell. ‘Advanced skills in Alternative Synergistic Networking.’ 

It was _technically_ possible that everyone at the call center was _also_ packing more hidden weapons than a Las Vegas drug dealer strongly considering retirement. This was obviously just in case he had a run in with Weapon X but, in all honesty, he felt naked leaving his apartment without at least one knife strapped to his thigh. (Under the pants, calm down. Wade read the employee handbook on appropriate dress code, thank you very much.) 

Maybe, _just maybe,_ everyone was _also_ having a crisis about the (gag worthy) morality of vigilantism and mercenary work caused by a Friendly Neighborhood _Meddling Asshole._ If that were the case, he wished they would all stop being so cagey about it and share their notes. Not even Professor X had managed to get Wade to seriously consider giving up unaliving. So who the hell did Spider-Man think he was? He was just some angry twink in red and blue spandex with an ass so fine, they couldn’t help endlessly rebooting it on the big screens. 

Wade would happily eat his hat, shoes, or whatever unpleasant thing required to make a point, if _any single one_ of his colleagues also happened to have recently told Spider-Man that they (1) would refrain from lightly maiming him, (2) work with him on stopping Weapon X, and (3) had a boyfriend. Maybe Petey-pie would be amenable to having that fake relationship go both ways. The guy already demonstrated the spectacularly questionable judgment Wade usually looked for in a friend. It was possible. 

So long as his slowly (rapidly) building crush (total infatuation) with Peter (probably the love of his life. After Spidey. And Vaness—) never reached a breaking point and Peter never, ever, _ever_ saw Wilson’s true face, everything would be fine. Right? That was a regular thing to ask of friends and/or lovers. Totally Tinder chic. Paper bags were all the rage these days. 

Wade slumped further in his chair and groaned his tempest of mixed feelings at the top of his lungs. 

He communicated all of this to Mark with a series of emoticons. 

**Mark:** _i dnt kno what that means lol._

**Wilson:** _Those are my feelings. :(_

 **Mark:** _oof_

“Well that’s hurtful, Mark.” Wade mumbled as he carefully hunt-and-pecked the keys for his soul-baring response

 **Wilson:** _:((_

 **Mark:** _go call ur boy or smth. take early lunch._

_There_ was the thoughtful manager Wade knew, loved, and to whom he had sworn an elaborate oath of fealty. It’d taken all of one (1) day for Wade to come clean and admit he was flirting with a customer. Given that Wade had managed to get Peter to buy a Countertop Oven HAM-1701 at full price, Mark decided he was thoroughly supportive of the illicit, totally-against-policy, hopefully soon to be _raunchy_ log of calls to Peter’s number. And here he was, telling Wade to go to his fake boyfriend, like a manager from a cheap porno. 

“The world doesn’t deserve you, Mark.” Wade told the _‘Mark is typing…’_ animation at the bottom of the chat. 

**Mark:** _or go for a walk. its slow 2day so it doesnt matter._

 **Mark:** _whtever u need to stop threatening customers. its funny but my boss will have my ass if u get caught by higher ups_

 **Wilson:** _You know I would never put you in danger, my sweet Prince of Management_

Wade barely allowed for the five seconds it took to type out the message and hit enter, already working on disconnecting the mobile piece of his desk phone from it’s base, stuffing it in his pocket and leaving his desk behind him. He spun the plastic phone between his index finger and thumb a few times before he slid the joined plastic pieces to reveal the keypad. He punched in his baby boy’s number, long past being embarrassed for having it memorized. But he held off on pressing dial—it was the least he could do to spare Peter the sounds of construction and copy machines.

Like always, Mark was right. Calling his baby boy to talk out the uncomfortable squirming feeling in his heart sounded too good to pass up, even if he couldn’t reasonably expect Peter to be cool with mercenary woes. 

He could code it as something else. Yeah, he could talk about his being torn between two entirely different lifestyles as… career changes, maybe! The classic soul-searching that came with considering tossing away a lifetime of experience in the customer service field ( _technically!_ ) to a much harder, less rewarding, _worse paying,_ entry level position in something analogous to being a no-kill hero. 

Something well intentioned that ultimately ended up safe-guarding bad people from consequences despite being built to protect victims. 

Somewhere where fun wasn’t allowed and people care about what color your tie was. 

A place with strict policies that were all about reputation. 

Wade snapped his fingers and grinned. 

_Corporate level HR._

He let the door to the main lobby click behind him and was welcomed by the sight of rows upon rows of beige cubicles all reassembled nicely since the Incident from his first day. Cheryl looked up from her spot and smiled warmly at him. Even Jeremy gave him a begrudging nod. Through the glass window of his office, Wade could see Mark trying to piece together a shredded document. He paused to grin and wave at Wade. Wade grinned back. 

It was a nice change of pace. Wade wasn’t usually the beneficiary of that kind of behavior unless he’d either killed enough people that everyone was trying to be extra nice to prevent further carnage _or_ he was being led directly into a trap. Either way, that kind of behavior performed with sincerity was frowned upon at Sister Margaret’s. Wade could at least give the civilian and no-kill hero crowds props for being better company. 

The little plastic phone buzzed under his fingers, interrupting the moment rudely. He gave his co-workers a tired ‘what are ya gonna do?’ smile-and-shrug combo, waved away Mark’s concerned look, and pressed his back to the push-bar on the door leading outside. He didn’t have so much as a second to enjoy the fresh-ish air when the phone rattled against him again. 

“No rest for the wicked, eh?” He scowled down at the offending piece of plastic, declaring unhelpfully that whoever was ringing him was doing so from an unknown number. His fingertip hesitated over the ‘decline’ button. 

But what if it was Weasel? What if he had a lead?

Wade’s head tipped back and he sighed loudly before pressing ‘accept.’ “Logan’s Salon, where it’s finally _your_ turn to curl up and dye. How many perms can I put you down for?” 

There was a shallow static on the line, some mild shuffling. Wade frowned.

“Listen, if you’re calling to get your rocks off, that’s not until after eight,” he tried. “Don’t get me wrong, the ominous breathing into the mic really does it for me—” 

_Click. Click. Click._

A brief pause of silence before the dial tone blared. He winced and pressed _‘end call’_ a few times, following the sacred ‘always double tap’ credo with gusto. If his functional immortality was good for one thing, it would at least allow him to personally witness the extinction of all fax machines. He shoved the phone in his pocket and kept walking, trying to focus on the sunshine, the immaculately shaped shrubbery, the gum spots on the sidewalk that kinda looked like dicks— 

The buzzing at his hip started up again without an ounce of remorse, and he absolutely intended to introduce it up close and personal to the knife it was pushing uncomfortably against his skin; until he saw who was calling. 

“Baby boy!” Wade crooned and twirled as he walked. Belatedly he realized he maybe should have waited until the second ring to seem less desperate. Too late. Besides, he _was_ desperate. “I was just thinking about you. What’s your ring size?”

“Hi Wilson,” Peter laughed. “I think it’s a bit early for that.” 

Wade scoffed. “Fine, no trips to Narnia. Call me old fashioned but it’s not a _real_ fake-relationship unless you’ve done a little dimensional distortion.” 

There was some quiet chuckling and a yawn before Peter fell quiet. He was just waking up, Wade realized. Barely awake and he’d called _Wilson_. 

Wade had to clench his fist, count to ten, and bite the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper to prevent himself from vocalizing the explosion of emotions that threatened to start consuming vital bits to make room for the perfect destruction Peter wrought. 

Touched didn’t even cover it, although the word did have the added bonus of making him realize how fiercely he wanted to _touch._ Even if he had no face to put to Peter’s sleep-soft voice, he still twitched with the urge. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling; no one was lining up to get snuggly with a guy who looked like he lost a fight with a paper shredder. Just being in proximity to other people usually had him fighting back barrages of intrusive thoughts demanding he reach out, pinch, smack, grab, squeeze, _stroke_ —

“Pumpkin eater?” Wade sounded a little strangled as he cut that line of thought off as fast as he could. No way, no how was he going to go full-on Deadpool and ruin what he had with Peter. “Did you fall asleep on me?” 

“Mmh,” was Peter’s eloquent response. “No, I—” another yawn “—was just thinkin’.” 

Wade stared down at the inducer gloves as they flickered with how harshly he was digging his nails into his palms. He focused on relaxing, on deep breaths. Oh, _deep,_ that was another _very_ nice word—

“What’cha thinkin’ about?” Wade blurted and took a sharp right turn towards the rows of empty storage units. It was one of the few places he knew from his walks that was without functioning security cameras. Which definitely didn’t matter, wasn’t relevant, and of course Wade wasn’t planning anything inappropriate to workplace conduct, per pages 35 through 49 of the employee handbook— “The ultimate fuckboy question, I know, but in my defense I already know the answer. I just wanna hear if you’re brave enough to admit it.” 

“Oh yeah?” Peter's voice dipped lower, but it sounded like he was smiling. 

The challenging lilt to the words didn’t escape Wade either and Wade had never wanted to see anything so badly in his entire life as he wanted to see what Peter looked like at that exact moment. 

“ _Oh_ yeah.” Wade grinned. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in a shiny metal temperature control box. All scruffy blonde hair, stubble that he could never quite get rid of, a sharpness to his grin that always got him in more trouble than his actual deeds ever did. The shock-blue eyes were the only thing that still looked familiar. Everything else was a lie from the image inducer. The smile in front of him melted away like a wax figure under direct sunlight. He couldn’t goad Peter into something he couldn’t possibly reciprocate. Even if he’d just heard a tell-tale catch in Peter’s breath. 

So Wade swallowed back the filthy words on the tip of his tongue, shook himself out, and found his rhythm. Fast paced enough to make his baby boy smile, cheesy enough to be non-threatening. Friendly enough to allow some of how much Wade treasured these talks shine through. 

“You’re thinking about how hot Mr. Tumnus was.” Wade spoke matter-of-factly. “You made the right call, baby boy. No way I could hold a candle to that, and I don’t think I could stand being dumped in front of talking bunnies.” 

The sweet reward of hearing his Petey-pie laugh in earnest was worth it. 

“Hah, you know, you aren’t far off. Not quite, though.” The next yawn was bit off sharply and accompanied by the sound of sheets rustling. The sleep was fading from his voice and Wade already missed it. “Better luck next time.”

With a set up like that, Wade couldn’t help flirting back. “Next time, eh? I like the sound of that sexy sleepy morning voice of yours being a regular occurrence.” 

Hubris. Pure hubris. His reflection grinned at him unrepentantly as Peter laughed again. 

“You still owe me your tragic backstory, remember?” There was more shuffling and Peter’s voice strained like he was stretching. 

Wade Wilson was going to die out here, on the sidewalk in front of a H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech call center. An embarrassing end to a horrific life, but he’d die happy with his baby boy’s voice in his ears. His baby boy who happily rolled with the abrupt cockblocking of morning phone sex and still wanted to know Wade’s tragic backstory. 

Suddenly, the chorus of angels, clouds of butterflies, and technicolor rainbows faded. His world sank into something dimmer, where the sunlight bearing down on his shoulders burned the gnarled skin hidden beneath his hoodie. The shadows of bushes and trees swayed in the breeze and he felt the familiar instinct to reach for weaponry at every potential threat. He felt acutely aware of how tantalizingly close he was to death; just one mis-step out into the busy streets and the cold would welcome him home. It would hook its claws into the awful burning, the fire that never quite left his skin to heal, and for just a little bit he would have his grim, lonely peace. 

Under no circumstances would Wade bring Peter into that world. 

He swallowed around a dry throat. “Not exactly the brightest morning chatter, baby boy. Raincheck?” 

“Yeah, yeah f’course, Will.” Peter yawned again. “Shit, sorry. Should’ve asked if you’re alright with nicknames. I used to come up with all sorts of stupid nicknames for my friends back when… uh. Back when I had friends. Old habits die hard and all that. There was an article about habits on NPR yesterday, actually—” 

There was a muffled sound of a ringtone and whatever Peter had been about to mumble his way through was replaced with the frantic sounds of Peter scrambling. Wade paused in his walking, pulled his head-set away from his ear to stare at it, then let it thwack gently back into place. 

“...Hey, Pete. Hey, Peter. Petey. Was that the Amazing Spider-Man cartoon theme song?” Wade tried not to wheeze. 

“ _No!_ ” Peter said way too quickly. Wade lost what little composure he’d managed to gather. “...Maybe, alright? Look, it’s catchy—” 

“Oh, you’re preaching to the choir, babe.” Wade thought back to Spider-Man effortlessly knocking him flat on his back and nearly swooned. Safer territory. “I’m, like, Spidey’s biggest fan. That cartoon series was underappreciated, tee-bee-aych.” 

Peter scoffed loudly. “Yeah, well. I heard there was some opposition to it. A lot of his fans knew it wasn’t really his show. It never had any input from the guy himself, so. Kind of tasteless, really.” 

Wade snickered. “I’ve already heard your ringtone, Petey.” 

“It’s _catchy!_ ” 

Rainbows and glitter crept back into the corners of Wade’s vision as he smiled so hard it hurt. It tinted the morning sky with pinks and purples, bordering the bright reds and oranges of just-past-dawn. On a whim, he pulled his own cell phone out and snapped a picture. A few expert swipes to find the perfect filter before he pressed the ‘share’ button. He hesitated for only a breath before sending it to Peter’s email. 

Sure enough, there was the first chorus of the cartoon again. 

“For emails? Really?” Wade laughed. 

Peter sputtered. “What? How do you—Oh. You emailed me. Ha _hah._ Very clever. I hope you know that’s the tone for my spam account only.” 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Wade sounded maybe a little more sincere than he’d meant to. “Go, go, open it! I sent you something. From my personal, not-work account. If that’s at all relevant to your interests.” 

There was more shuffling and under-the-breath grousing that Wade committed to memory. 

Instead of the cooing or ‘oh, Wilson, that’s beautiful. Come over and make out with me right this instant!’ that Wade was sorta hoping for, Peter was silent. 

“Pete?” Wade looked down at his own copy of the photo. Had he managed to somehow accidentally send a dick pic? It wouldn’t be the first time, but he was _pretty_ sure he had pants on. He tucked his phone against his shoulder and grabbed his own ass with both hands just to be sure. Maybe the personal contact information was what killed his epic romance dead in the water. Sure it was ‘noobmaster69@yahoozle’, but Peter had shared _his_ equally embarrassing email. “Everything alright?” 

“Huh?” Peter sounded distracted and it did nothing to soothe Wade’s rapidly worsening nerves. “Oh! Sorry. Got an email from work, too. For the stupid New Year’s party thing.” 

The pieces started to click in Wade’s head. “The one MJ told me to make sure you attended?” 

“One and the same.” Peter huffed quietly. His voice was soft again, but it wasn’t from sleep. Instead it sounded closer to the echoes of an old defeat. Wade hated it. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to follow through. I figure you’ll fake-dump your fake-boyfriend by then. Okay, no distractions, opening the attachment now… Aw, that’s nice. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a picture of the sunrise before. Did you use Valencia on this?”

“Slow your roll, baby boy.” Wade’s head spun and the ground threatened to drop from underneath him. “I’m fake-dumping you?” 

Another tense moment of silence and Wade knew immediately he shouldn’t have asked. Shouldn’t have forced that conversation to light, not when he knew the whole fake-boyfriend thing was just a cheap ploy to get back at an ex. Which, in any other circumstance, Wade respected the hell out of. Pettiness was underrated in his not-very-humble opinion. It wasn’t the nature of the arrangement that had him scrambling. 

It was the thought of it ending. 

“Well… yeah.” Peter’s voice was quiet and Wade watched his own smooth hands gifted to him by the image inducers flicker as his pulse skipped a few beats, letting reality bleed through the beautiful lie. “I mean, I’m guessing a guy like you has a million guys and girls hanging off him, and just because I’m permanently a single seahorse doesn’t mean you have to suffer that fate in addition to playing charades with me.” 

Wade barked out a laugh. “You have no idea how wrong you are.” 

It came out a lot more bitter than he meant it to. A little too much Deadpool. Not enough Wade. He swallowed back the turmoil and forced himself to smile until it felt more real. 

“Wh-What?” Peter stammered. “No, I definitely am. Single. Permanently. It’s a whole complicated thing—” 

“No, not that!” Wade couldn’t stop his own voice if he wanted to. It was like a runaway train. “No one’s hanging off of this sad sack, I promise. Besides, I bet people are clamoring for you. You’re probably one of those nerds who just doesn’t notice. I bet you’re shocked every single Valentine's Day, huh? Pfft. Peter, I would date the _shit_ out of you.”

He managed to mumble off something that sounded like ‘dumbass baby boy, talking about being undateable—’ as he trailed into the silence Peter made no attempt to break. Wade wished he would smash it with a mallet. _Anything._

See that’s the fun secret of being Deadpool, readers: no one hated Wade Wilson’s motormouth like Wade Wilson did. Sure, ol’ Logan-bear put up a real fuss when he wanted to, but it wasn’t Logan that got hurt the most often because of it. It was Wade. It was _always_ Wade. There was nothing quite like boldly declaring romantic intentions to a man he’d never met in person, while simultaneously staring down at the flickering projections that he knew made him impossible to touch without turning back into a monster in front of Peter’s eyes. 

But if he _had_ to liken it to a feeling, Wade opted for ‘accidentally getting your intestines caught in the propeller of a submarine.’ 

“I dunno,” Peter croaked out a weak laugh. He sounded nervous. “That would require meeting up in person. Are we ready to take our relationship to that level?” 

Wade flexed his fingers out so the image inducer stopped flickering. _No,_ he thought. _There’s no way I’m letting you kiss a prince and watch him turn into a frog recently hit by a semi. That’s not how it’s supposed to go._

“I’m not sure,” Wade replied cheerfully, broken heart bit back behind sharp teeth. “I’ve got particular tastes, baby boy. Moustaches only. I’m talking about a real _Tom Selleck,_ you know what I mean? Some real lip candy. I’ve got a big walrus moustache myself, see, and it’s the kind of majestic thing that just has to come in a pair. If we don’t look like confused time travellers wherever we go on dates, then what’s even the point of modern courtship—?” 

“How’s this?” 

Peter’s voice chimed in, mercifully cutting off Wade’s babbling as it increased in speed. Moments later, his phone buzzed. There was a new email with an attachment. 

“Oh my god,” Wade breathed. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s not a dick pic. Unless you count it being a picture of someone being a dick. In which case, it’s a dick pic.” 

Wade didn’t listen. He was bouncing from foot to foot, eyes locked on the blank attachment. He maximized it, and dropped down to sit right there between two empty storage units, ignoring the perfectly good bench a couple paces away. Benches were for idiots who didn’t have selfies from Peter. He hunched over, holding the phone so close to his face it tingled where the image inducer smoothed over his nose. 

It was only because he was ducked over that he managed to avoid a flying drone dishing out a buzz cut a whole seven inches too far low. Wade jumped back up to his feet, whipping around to stare after the drone. Its razor sharp propellers buzzed, getting dimmer as it didn’t alter course. It was headed straight for the call center. Two more flew past him from around the end of the row of units. The motion sensors attached to the customer facing entrance let the electronic intruders in without so much as a passing attempt at security measures. Three more followed. It slowly turned into a steady stream.

“Ah, sorry, baby boy! Hold on a sec, there’s an airplane—” another few buzzed loudly past him, and he swore under his breath as he realized they weren’t stopping any time soon. “Like thirty airplanes. Hot steamed _dick cheese_ , how many of these things are there?” 

“Thirty airplanes?” Peter sounded baffled. Wade couldn’t blame him. Something was weird. 

He jogged towards the source to find an open storage unit chock full of the little flying bastards, each taking to the air and zipping through the air one by one. There must have been fifty, at least. 

The confusion cleared up quickly to sudden understanding when he saw each drone was equipped for combat. Some with blades, some with strobe lights, some with little extensions that looked like lighters. The latest batch was the most concerning, however. The little beeping wired boxes with flashing red lights that dangled from the middle of the drones sure didn’t look like _not_ bombs. 

“Wilson? Are you okay?” 

Acting on instinct, Wade reached for the manual handle on the storage unit and tugged the metal door down. After a beat, the door rattled as a drone crashed into it, but didn’t dent. He could still beeping, which meant it was time to put some distance between himself and the Attack of the Drones. 

He moved swiftly back through the rows of storage units, closing any that were open without bothering to check their contents, and steadily making his way towards the exit. There was a muffled explosion behind him complete with the sound of metal bending out of shape. He stayed put, watched and waited. The air stayed clear of any new drones. He grinned. 

“Fuck, what was that? That sounded like—” Peter’s voice stopped short and he sputtered. “I-I don’t know, it sounded bad! Are you okay? Wilson, are you safe?” 

_Hah. No. I’m not safe. I’m also not Wilson,_ Wade wanted to say. His boots seemed as stuck to the ground as Spidey’s on the side of the alleyway building. Wade gritted his teeth as he was confronted with a whole new obstacle: be a responsible hero (end the call, put away his shitty cell phone, grab his knife and destroy the army of Evil Wall-Es), or be a civilian for just a moment longer (wait for Peter’s picture to load) before trying to make Spidey proud. 

Wade made an impatient sound as he started walking towards the building. He didn’t hang up, though. Not _yet._ If the stupid picture would hurry up and load, this wouldn’t have to delve into internal conflict that was clearly fodder for the author with a fucking _trolley problem fetish_ — 

“I’m uh,” Wade started to reassure Peter before he found himself speechless. 

“Wilson?” It was Peter’s turn to sound nervous, but he had no reason to be nervous. 

Not if the picture Wade was looking at wasn’t some kind of demented catfishing attempt. 

“Holy shit,” Wade breathed. 

Peter’s scruffy brown hair sticking up in all different directions, hinting at the tiniest bit of a curl that Peter had clearly been trying to comb out. Freckles across warm tan skin, and brown eyes dark and deep enough that Wade could drown in them. 

“As in _holy shit_ you’re dying from an alien attack? Or—?” 

“I got your selfie,” Wade sounded faint. Retrospectively, it was probably better to pretend he was feeling weak in the knees from a drone strike. But the heart wants what the heart wants.

“Oh.” Peter cleared his throat. 

Another four drones zipped by Wade and he couldn’t look up from the finger Peter held over his top lip. Specifically, the little black curly moustache drawn on the aforementioned finger. 

“I would try to grow a real one, but I think I might get tased for looking like a rejected _Radiohead_ band member. I don’t know if you can even see the patchy stubble, but trust me the moustache would look even worse.” Peter laughed, talked a little too quickly. “Oh shit, I think this is a permanent marker. Is ink poisoning a real thing? Or did high school teachers just have a real bad vendetta against drawing notes on hands for some reason? Hypothetically speaking, what would the symptoms of ink poisoning be? Just if you happen to know—” 

“ _Holy shit,_ baby boy,” Wade said again, reverent, as hell soared down from the sky around him. His whole world at H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech was falling apart at the soon-to-be fiery seams. The very evidence of _something weird_ going on that he’d taken the undercover job for— _the whole reason he was here at all_ —was literally falling out of the sky and into his figurative lap and Wade was frozen to the spot. 

Peter cleared his throat. “...Holy shit _good,_ or holy shit _bad?_ ”

A drone clipped his ear. Wade yelped and veered off to the side, having to duck another two drones as the shitstorm of his life refused to let him have a goddamn _moment._

“Holy shit, _good!_ Holy shit, _very goddamn good_ , _Peter._ L’Oréal model good,” Wade started jogging lightly after the offending drones. He tugged his tucked in shirt up as he moved, fidgeting for access to his holsters all the while refusing to let go of his tiny cell phone screen currently full of the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He tried to reign it in. Deadpool didn’t have to make an appearance for Peter. He could still be Wilson Johnson for a little longer. “Maybe the ‘Before’ guy instead of the ‘After’ guy, but you know how they always pick someone with the sexiest bedhead you’ve ever seen? Never a genuine disaster—”

“The ‘Before’ guy,” Peter repeated flatly. 

Maybe he reigned it in too hard.

“Hottest ‘Before’ guy I’ve ever seen, girl scout’s honor,” Wade declared, voice only a little frantic. He didn’t have long before he’d have to end the call. Seconds before he would have to be Deadpool and Wilson Johnson would crumble, right along with his gainful employment and his excuse for calling Peter. _Just a tiny bit longer,_ he begged the universe he knew to be cold and unsympathetic. Just a smidge longer in Peter’s world, that’s all he wanted. “You could be a part-time model. Or full time if you work for me. Hopefully you’re cheap, cuz this job does not pay well, baby boy. But I will dig into retirement if need be. Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good, and the greatest good is getting that face on every billboard. All of them.” 

“Wilson,” Peter laughed. Wade couldn’t think of anything but what that crooked smile looked like when Peter was laughing. Did he tug on his hair nervously? Did his eyes crinkle in the corners? Peter coughed again. “So is that a date, then? Do you… Do you really want to do this? Meet up?” 

“I—” Wade started. 

The muffled sounds of explosions and waves of heat pulsed out of the middle floor of the building. Smoke started curling out of open windows and air vents alike. Another explosion blew the glass in the windows out altogether. Wade swore. Peter’s voice was lost to the irritatingly familiar ringing that came with fresh tinnitus. 

“Fuck, baby boy, I have to go. Something’s—” 

The fire alarm started it’s shrill wailing and Wade hung up with a frustrated cry. In the same smooth motion, Wade put his phone safely back in his pocket and Deadpool unsheathed his knife. 

He plunged it deep into the core of the next drone to swoop by him and glared down at it. If he hadn’t already been planning to save the stupid day from flying killer robots, the little white logo reading ‘AJAX’ with the ‘X’ circled cemented his decision. 

He locked the building door behind him, satisfied in hearing a couple of the barely-surviving drones thunk against the glass like confused pigeons. 

Deadpool sneered and pulled the weakly humming drone closer, looking for any kind of camera until he made a wild guess at it. He leaned in close, tapped at a switch at the base of his own inducer before pointing the lens at himself. He smiled through ripped and scarred lips. 

“You know, _Francis,_ I really liked this job. It had a pension plan. And dental! Which you’re going to learn the value of when I _kick your fucking teeth in._ ” 

He grabbed the drone by the edges and twisted the knife hard enough to put a corkscrew through the mechanics with a satisfying _crunch._ The light went out and the weak movement halted entirely so he dropped it to the ground, already forgotten as he charged at his next target. 

* * *

So. Peter might have panicked.

He _maybe_ did a little light stalking. Just some casual doxxing. A sprinkling of privacy invasion. Maybe sort of a teensy bit of identity fraud, but only just enough that he could call H.A.M.M.E.R. Tech’s corporate HR branch and pretend to be a pissed off employee looking to file a complaint against one Mr. Wilson Johnson, and thus needed to know what branch he worked in. The lady who had answered the phone didn’t buy it one bit. The fake name he’d made up in a panic (‘Er. Tobey. Tobey Tom.’ ‘Mr. Tobey Tom, right. Last name?’ ‘Uh….Garfield.’ ‘...Like the cat?’ ‘....Yep.’ ‘Mmm _hm_.’) didn’t help either. 

In his defense, he’d heard alarms and screams blaring from wherever Wilson was, and that was definitely something well within Spider-Man’s domain. He couldn’t help that it got his hackles all raised and spidey senses a-tinglin’. 

The fact that Wilson hadn’t answered about meeting up for maybe _a real actual date_ before hanging up was just coincidental, bonus anxiety. Like when the delivery driver forgets your second burrito, but it’s okay! They accidentally gave you an extra four servings of guacamole, which you are _deathly allergic to._

It was probably for the best that his attempts at stalking had ground to a screeching halt at the feet of one steel willed phone agent, since committing crime was something he generally tried to avoid modelling as Spider-Man. He’d never felt more grateful for push notifications than when his burner phone buzzed with a local news alert announcing a drone attack on a local H.A.M.M.E.R. call center. 

Peter had the mask and suit on in record time. 

He was distantly aware, as he swung from building to building, that he probably should have been forming a plan of attack. Some fancy web tricks to take down the drones quickly, or dismantle the ones that were reportedly carrying small incendiary bombs. Maybe enough webbing sludge piled on them would do the trick. It was a flame retardant. That was probably enough, right? Take down drones, rescue people, be in and out before lunch time. Easy-peasy.

Wind whooshed past his ears as he took a turn towards Stuy and drowned out the sound of sirens caught in classic New York gridlock. He’d be without back-up by the sounds of things. Rescuing people from the building on his own. 

People that might potentially include Wilson. Wilson who hadn’t exactly sent Peter a selfie, nor agreed to meet in person. Not that he knew Peter was Spider-Man, so technically it wasn’t a violation of the other man’s wishes. Or at least one Wilson would realize. Technically. Sort of.

Guilt warred with undeniable, unethical, unfiltered _excitement_. The latter was winning and he was so giddy he felt almost light-headed. Even the actively burning building in front of him barely made his heart skip. He threw an extra line of webbing to alter his trajectory and balled himself up so he could crash through one of the windows on the top floor. 

His lenses widened to compensate for the haze of smoke filtering in from the far side of the room, but it still took him a moment to register that it wasn’t smoke blocking his vision of the source. It was the actual barricade of cubicle walls, desks, computers, boxes, copy machines, and chairs that piled up nearly to the ceiling and curled in a crescent around a huddle of office workers. There were some gaps between the barricade and the ceiling just barely wide enough to allow a drone to clear the distance. However, any drone that made the journey was speedily shot down by a squad of men and women in button-ups armed with sawed off shotguns. 

“Huh,” Spider-Man said. “That’s… new.” 

Eyes snapped over to him and relieved smiles quickly followed. One of the civilian drone-sniper squad kept her torso low as she jogged over to him. It was an inexperienced mimic of the same jog he was used to seeing on Hawkeye, or Black Widow, or— 

“Spider-Man! Thanks for coming. My name is Cheryl,” she said politely, reaching out to both shake his hand and press the barrel of her shotgun into his palm. He blinked down at it, stunned. “I hope you don’t mind that we’ve been taking care of some of the drones ourselves. Could you get this back to Wilson? He lent out the lot of them to us before he rushed off to help the lower level.”

“Wilson?” Spider-Man repeated dumbly. The rest of the civilian snipers followed Cheryl’s lead and jogged over, piling up their guns in Spider-Man’s arms. “Hold on, what?” 

The metal of a drone scraped past the brackets of a bent cubicle wall and he shot webbing at it absently. There were five sawed off shotguns in his arms. All of which apparently belonged to Wilson. 

“Wilson Johnson, yes,” Cheryl nodded. Her eyes flicked between the gaps in the barricade nervously. It was enough to remind Spider-Man that despite how weirdly prepared these people were, they were still civilians. She nodded towards the shattered window, edging closer to it and looking over the ledge at the pavement below with wide eyes. “Is there… Uh, is the fire department coming?” 

Sooty suit jackets, stained polos, and ripped up pencil skirts congregated around him as Spider-Man valiantly shook his head until his entire brain was back online. 

“Guns go back to Wilson Johnson. Got it.” He dropped the pile of weapons and webbed them to the tacky office carpeting, ignoring the wince from Wilson’s coworkers. “I’m going to make you all a ladder, okay? Once you get to the ground, wait for the paramedics to show up. You might have inhaled a lot of smoke and injuries from stuff like this aren’t always immediately obvious. Better be safe than sorry.” 

There was a small explosion and crackling on the other side of the barricade. 

“And speaking of safety…” Spider-Man muttered and rushed back to the broken window. 

He toggled the little weighted metal ball to the nozzle of his shooter then fired off a thick line of webbing at a steep diagonal to the ground. He anchored it to the base of the window, adding some supporting webbing to keep it sturdy before repeating the actions. Three sturdy ropes of webbing wobbled in the air until he sent a tiny shock through the lines. Like magic, they puffed up and spat out thinner strands of webbing, latching together like the world’s ugliest lace. It would have to do. 

Spider-Man stepped out of the way and nodded gratefully as people started climbing down the webbing one by one. Cheryl was huddled near the back of the group, still watching the barricade. She chewed on her lip, too distracted to notice Spider-Man’s approach. He cleared his throat so as not to spook her. She turned wide-eyes to him and offered a shaky smile. A remarkably steady reaction given the circumstances. 

“Did Wilson teach you how to make the barricade?” He asked. 

She nodded. “He told us to hide up here since most of the drones couldn’t figure out how to navigate the stairwell. Which is why…” 

She looked towards the barricade again and pieces started to click together. “That’s why it’s on fire. Okay. Got it.” 

She nodded again. 

Spider-Man ignored his heart in his throat and kept his voice steady. “Did Wilson go back downstairs before or after the fire?” 

“Before,” she said. She was the last left to approach the webbing ladder, and he helped steady her. 

“Thank you, Cheryl. You saved people’s lives today,” Spider-Man tried to keep his voice as warm as he could. She gave him a watery smile for his efforts. “Before you go, I need you to tell me if you know how many people got stuck on the ground floor.” 

The cool air outside whipped up her hair and flicked her shirt collar against her neck. She was missing a pearl earring and her hair was slowly but surely winning the battle against the plastic clip that tried to keep it pinned back. There were ashy stains where he bet the fabric was usually immaculate. Nerves made themselves known in the slight tremor in her hands, but like her colleagues, those nerves never quite escalated to fear. 

Whatever Wilson had taught them, he’d made his coworkers a force to be reckoned with. It was with quiet awe that Spider-Man realized where he recognized that firm resolve before: superheroes. Wilson had taken ordinary people and turned them into superheroes. 

“It’s just Wilson and Mark,” Cheryl’s voice kept steady. “Everyone else managed to make it behind the barricade, or got out before the exits on the first floor were blocked.” 

Spider-Man nodded, muttered his thanks, and was about to turn to the barricade when a shaky hand landed on his. He met Cheryl’s gaze with wide-lenses. 

“Please save them, Spider-Man. They’re good people.” 

Spider-Man swallowed thickly and patted his free hand over hers awkwardly before steadying the start of her climb down to the ground. 

He was allowed only a split second to watch and make sure everyone was making it safely before there was another explosion behind the barricade, this time powerful enough to shake free a landslide of charred office equipment. 

* * *

“Hold on,” Mark coughed and it made his arm shake as he held out a refilled handgun cartridge to Wade. “Let me make sure I’m following this.” 

Deadpool dropped the empty clip with a practiced motion and traded it off swiftly, smacking the full one into place. “We can start from the top again if you need! Just need you to keep refilling those, keep pressure on your side, and most importantly: keep talking. Can you do that, Marky-Mark? I gotta focus on taking care of the _funky bunch._ ” 

Mark offered a pained wheeze and a thumbs up as he got to work with the pile of bullets Deadpool had dumped unceremoniously between them. “So you’re Deadpool.” 

“Yup.” Wade raised himself up just enough to peer over the stack of file cabinets. 

It wasn’t as good as the barrier upstairs, but it worked well enough. He ducked down when he heard a beep, already expecting the _thud-thud-thud_ of tiny little bullets burying themselves in the cabinets. Much like the stray shot that had nicked Mark’s side. He spared a glance to the dark stain that eked out from under the bundled up tweed sport jacket. It wasn’t a _lot_ of blood, but no amount of blood loss was ideal. He could at least take comfort in knowing the rest of the red stains spattering Mark were Wade’s own blood.

The beeping stopped and Wade took the opportunity. He raised up and levelled the gun at one of the drones, following its path carefully. He squeezed the trigger at the exact moment another bullet drove through his shoulder. His aim veered off to the left and he missed. _Again._

“For the honor of Hordak’s grey push-pop _cock-socket,_ ” Deadpool swore, dipping back down beneath cover and waiting for the wound to close. Glaring at it didn’t make it happen faster but it sure was satisfying. 

“Which is why you can get shot, like, a lot,” Mark eyed him warily, “and still be fine.” 

“Depends on what you call ‘fine,’” Deadpool said conversationally through gritted teeth. He ignored the way Mark’s gaze lingered on his fucked up face. It was a natural reaction. It was nothing to be worried about. It was—“I dress up in a leather bodysuit and kill people for a living. That would probably rank pretty high on a list of cries for help.” 

He wasn’t fully healed, but wherever the fuck this spiral was heading was gonna hurt a hell of a lot more than another bullet through the shoulder, so he raised up to take a few more shots. One of the shots dinged a propeller and the drone started flying in erratic circles. He whooped and ducked before any of the drones could sink in some retaliation. 

“Man,” Mark laughed weakly and Deadpool chanced a glance. “That is so _cool._ ” 

Deadpool reached up and grabbed Mark’s chin, turning his face to look him over. “Are you concussed? You’re probably concussed. Quick, who’s the president? Wait, don’t answer that. It’s too depressing—”

Mark pulled himself from Deadpool’s grasp and batted his hand away. “I’m not concussed, Wil—Er, Wade. Hah, Wade Wilson. I get it now.” 

Deadpool’s eyes narrowed. “Then why aren’t you freaking out? You should probably be freaking out. Right?”

“Probably,” Mark agreed. “But I dunno, after reading so many customer complaint forms, nothing really surprises me anymore.” 

“I kill people,” Deadpool said slowly. “That doesn’t bother you?” 

Mark shrugged, then looked like he immediately regretted it. He spoke through a wince. “I was in the military for a bit.” 

“Yeah, desk duty in the Chair Force doesn’t count.” Then after a pause. “Hold on, I read up on this. Didn’t you get kicked out for having severe allergies and a bad ankle?”

“Not all of us could be black-ops _Marines_ ,” Mark glowered. “And some of us got suckered in for free college. But I still had to make peace with the fact that I might be forced to be a cog in the violent imperialistic machine eventually. Which is still better than being a cop. Besides, it’s not like I’m having to confront any of your vic’s bloody corpses right at this moment, so that makes it easier to swallow—” 

“Who the fuck _are_ you?” 

Mark handed him the refilled clip. “I’m your manager. Duck!” 

Deadpool grabbed a ripped panel from a cubicle wall and used it to cover them both as a spray of sparks spilled over their barricade and rained down on them. Then he promptly slammed it fire-side down on the floor to put out the smoulders.

“ _Are_ you?” Deadpool tried not to snap, but like a stingy first date, drones just wouldn’t go down. “I mean, am I not fired? I’m here undercover trying to figure out if H.A.M.M.E.R. is involved with Weapon X, human experiments, war crimes—” 

“What, are you asking me to violate the policy protections against whistleblowers?” Mark grinned at him. He was looking pale. Deadpool just stared. Mark’s expression sobered. “If H.A.M.M.E.R. is involved in shit that nasty, I want to know. I want them taken down. I’m not under orders any more. I’m a private citizen and that means I’m allowed to be a nuisance.” 

Deadpool gaped at him. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Mark rambled on. “I’m going to freak out about this, probably. But, y’know. Later. When I’m not bleeding. Or bleeding less. Whatever comes first.” 

What could an unsanctioned mercenary recently-turned vigilante even say to that? 

“Wilson?” Mark tilted his head, then squinted. “Wait are you concussed?” 

“No,” Deadpool spat out. Some animated sparkles appeared around Mark. “Maybe.”

Mark gave him an unimpressed look. 

“I’m processing! Give me a fucking second, _Maury_ ,” Deadpool snapped, and stared down at the gun in his grip, the dwindling pile of bullets between them, and the smoke that was accumulating from the ceiling down that was getting distressingly thick. He didn’t have a whole lot of time to take out the rest of the drones before they were in serious trouble. 

“Hey, Wil—Er. Wade?” 

“Wilson is fine, Mark,” Deadpool groused. 

“Okay then, Wilson. Is Spider-Man a friend or a foe?” 

Deadpool whipped his head to the side to see Mark tipped over far enough that he was nearly flat on the ground, squinting through a gap in the filing cabinet stack. He reached out and grabbed Mark’s collar and yanked him away from the blind-spot before a laser guided bullet planted itself where Mark’s head had been. 

“What?” Deadpool demanded. 

“Spider-Man,” Mark wheezed, not bothering to fight the grip on his collar. Instead he just pointed towards the ruckus that was starting to sound suspiciously more… ruckus-y. “He’s out there.” 

Deadpool swore and removed one hand from his gun to frantically try and find the switch on his image inducer. “Friend. Sort of. I think. I don’t really know. Not enough of a friend that I want him to know I’m here.” 

Mark scooted closer and helpfully pressed it for him. Wade looked Mark over again with a whole new appreciation. 

“I’m the coolest manager ever, I know,” Mark said sagely. “And I’m not above blackmailing you into early morning shifts. Not that I don’t believe in you or whatever, but please go get Spider-Man’s attention so we don’t die here. Tomorrow’s payday.” 

Wade couldn’t have fought the smile off his face if he tried. 

Now came the tricky part—ditching cover long enough to get Spidey’s attention without getting the attention of the drones. The image inducer protected his identity, but if he took another headshot, there wasn’t going to be much mystery to keep alive. Besides, it was just embarrassing. 

But hey, if Wade was anything, he was creative: so he took aim at the curved mirror mounted in the office corner meant to help Mark see the whole floor, and started firing in a constant stream. The mirrored surface shattered immediately, little bits of glass raining down. The metal bent and dinged, but stayed in place. He didn’t stop until his clip was empty. 

“Are you _crazy?_ What the _fuck?_ We’re almost _out of bullets_ — ” 

“Yes, _obviously_ I’m crazy! And watch that workplace appropriate language, Mark.” Wade grinned wolfishly and pressed his back against their cover, head turned to the side as he waited to make visual contact on one red and blue bastard. For the first time since he saw Peter’s face that morning, his heart was racing. “Besides I always hated those things. So creepy. Is this an office or a surveillance state, you know?”

“Hey, uh,” said a new voice. Spider-Man sat crouched on the charred cubicle panel and pointed at the remains of the mirror. His lenses were narrowed. “Don’t do that. _Ever_.” 

“Spider-Man!” Wade didn’t bother to hide his obvious delight. Next to him, Mark was still steadily swearing up a blue streak, but now it was peppered with ‘thank god’s. “Just in time. There were about seven left out there before we heard you banging about-- ...What? What’s that look for?” 

Spider-Man’s lenses were locked on the gun in Wade’s hands and he was doing that eerily still thing that gave Wade the creeps. Wade grimaced but slowly moved to put the gun down, other hand raised. Spider-Man snapped out of it and his lenses widened again. 

“Huh? Oh. Sorry.” He waved a distracted web-patterned hand. Wade squinted at it. Did he sew his own costume? It was so precise—“Just not used to civilians being… Uh.” 

“Useful?” Wade offered cheerfully in the same breath that Mark offered “Armed?” 

Spider-Man pointed at Mark’s suggestion and nodded. “Not that it isn’t appreciated… I think. But uh. I got it from here. The drones are down. It’s just a burning building now.” 

On cue, there was another round of beeping and a spray of bullets into the cabinets. Spider-Man lunged between them and threw up a dense net of webbing that caught the ricochets before Wade’s ears even registered the threat.

“Well, _most_ of the drones are down,” Spider-Man sounded annoyed. “But the building is still definitely on fire, so it’s time to exit stage left.”

“Pursued by bear,” Wade added compulsively. 

Spider-Man jolted as if struck and turned with wide-as-dinner-plate lenses to Wade. “So you’re… You’re Wilson?” 

Something was weird. Wade knew Spider-Man wasn’t the epitome of social grace or anything but this was weak even for him. He was eyeing Wade up and down and Wade couldn’t figure out _what he was looking at_. Maybe the blood stains? He glanced down and tugged at his own collar, surreptitiously checking to make sure his image inducer was on. Mark glanced at him side-long and gave a little reassuring nod. 

“He’s Wilson Johnson, and I’m Mark Baxter. We were in a squadron together, Spider-Man, er, _sir._ ” Mark tacked on the honorific as if it would really drive the big neon flashing lights of ‘ _hey, we’re military douchebags_ ’ home. The hesitance didn’t make it better either. Now they just looked like fetishists that wouldn’t commit to it. 

Wade grimaced and tried to quickly turn it into a smile. “ _Former_ military. Just a telemarketer now. Hi, I’m Wilson. Not that it isn’t nice to meet you, but could you get us out of here? Or are we in trouble too?” 

Spider-Man stared silently for long enough that Wade was just starting to worry that he’d broken the arachnid. 

“Oh. Yeah! Er. _Yes_.” Spider-Man cleared his throat and gestured at the gun and bullets on the floor. “While I’m glad you were able to protect yourselves, you got to know that carrying this much weaponry—” 

“Oh, come on, it’s just one hand-gun,” Wade whined.

“One handgun and five sawed-off shotguns,” Spider-Man correctly sternly. 

Wade tried for a winning smile. “Would you believe they’re decorative?” 

If he didn’t know from experience that Spider-Man had a no-killing shaped stick firmly jammed up his perfect ass, he would’ve sworn that the shake in his shoulders was from suppressing a laugh. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Spider-Man moved closer and delicately wrapped Mark’s arm around his own shoulders. Wade ignored the tire-fire of burning jealousy. “I’m going to get Mark here out to the paramedics. I’ll be back for you in a minute. Stay put, ‘kay?” 

“Gee,” Wade drawled. “So much for my plans to go dancing.” 

Spider-Man audibly snorted, but that was all the validation he offered before he kicked clean through the office wall. The drywall and cement crumbled and lo, a person-sized opening into the breakroom appeared; which was definitely not up to code. The sound of Spider-Man’s webs _thwipping_ was starting to become familiar to Wade, and if that wasn’t something to jack off to, then at least the perfect view of red and blue ass he saw disappearing through the opening was. 

A light-headed laugh bubbled up from somewhere in his chest and he immediately grabbed his gun again the second the webslinger was too far to do anything about it. A wave of adrenaline coursed through him as he took aim at the last drone. A crooked smile split across his lips and he knew even without Weasel there to tell him that the drone went down with a camera-full of the Wade Wilson who died to make room for Deadpool. 

“No guns!” Spider-Man’s voice was getting closer and Wade laughed again. 

“Sir, yes sir!” Wade chirped. 

Narrowed lenses on a red masked head peeked out from the rubble-y exit. “Seriously. I hate guns.” 

Wade shrugged and threw the gun over his shoulder. “Consider it gone.” 

There was a lull where Spider-Man stared at him. Wade fidgeted, suddenly positive that somehow, Spider-Man knew he was looking at Deadpool. But that was impossible. So he cleared his throat and did what he did best. Wade talked. 

“For someone who hates guns, you sure seem to appreciate the gun show,” he teased, flexing. 

Instead of using that sharp tongue Wade knew Spidey must have been biting back, the superhero just sputtered. Something in Wade’s head clicked and memories of days when he didn’t need an image inducer came flooding back. A slow grin spread across his lips and he flexed again. 

Spider-Man shook out his head, made a big show of being fed up, and gathered Wade up in his arms like he weighed nothing at all. Wade might have swooned a little bit. He wrapped an arm around Webs’ neck and extended one leg dramatically. “Oh, a princess carry? That is so _classy._ ” 

“Oh my god,” Spider-Man mumbled. 

Wade’s cackles echoed in the hallways as he was carried to safety through the building. He tipped his head back and draped his wrist over his forehead. “Spider-Man, you’re my _hero_.”

“ _Stop._ ” 

* * *

Wade stayed in the thick of the mess of cops and paramedics long enough to make his skin itch. There was something about being surrounded by badges that made him want to just start committing felonies. But he wanted to be absolutely certain Mark got packed into one of the first ambulances, promising over Mark’s protests that he’d foot the bill. 

“So give him the really _fancy_ blood,” Wade patted the side of the vehicle. “The kind you keep in the back for billionaires. Oh, and maybe a robotic arm! Hey Mark, do you want a robotic arm?” 

“No,” Mark said flatly as the EMTs shooed Wade away. 

He caught a glimpse of a plastic oxygen mask being fitted over Mark’s face as the doors closed. As if the mask had been fitted on him personally, Wade was suddenly breathing a lot easier. 

The crowd was slowly dispersing as people wrapped in shock blankets gave their accounts to various officers. The first trickle of news networks infiltrated the parking lot and that was enough to finally whittled away Wade’s willpower. No matter how badly he wanted to shake Colonel Mustard’s hand himself, there was nothing good that could come of getting his mug on the local news. 

Slipping away from it all wasn’t difficult—he’d made himself present, accounted for, and checked off of every list. He even let a few of the paramedics bandage the imaginary boo-boo on his shoulder (sadly, they didn’t go for his request of a kiss to make it all better). No one was looking for him, no loved ones trying to find him in the chaos, and the cops had a building’s worth of witnesses to get through. 

It was remarkable how much you could get away with if you walked with confidence and had no friends. 

He traced his fingers over the smooth painted metal doors of the storage units as he made his way back to where the wreckage must be. With the office building behind him and clear blue sky ahead, it was almost like nothing remarkable had happened at all. Just a regular day at work. 

Oh, fuck.

 _Peter_. 

Wade frantically drove his hands in his pockets, coming up empty where he should’ve had his phone. Panic started to bubble up when—

“Hey, Wilson.” Spider-Man’s voice broke Wade’s thought process cleanly in half. 

He was perched up on top of the units and Wade had to squint to see the outline of him against the orange glow of mid-afternoon sun. The way the light fell on his shoulders made him look like he was glowing. And he might as well have been. He stood up and dropped down to Wade’s level as casually as if he had only stepped off a sidewalk ledge. 

That was the difference between a merc and a real hero, Wade realized. That glow. 

Wade didn’t think he would ever glow like that, but as red boots carried the man in the skin-tight suit closer, Wade thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to try and at least reflect that light. The moon to Spider-Man’s sun. 

“Looking for something?” Spider-Man asked and it yanked Wade back to reality. 

“In general? Like, in life?” So much for being the moon, subtle and graceful. Wade just couldn’t help himself. “Or in love? Gotta say, that Deadpool fella is smokin’. Thighs like tree trunks, know what I’m sayin’?” 

Spider-Man went rigid and Wade nearly kicked himself. “Uh. I have… a boyfriend.” 

“Of course you do. Look at you!” Wade gestured to the hero broadly. “You’re the model twink of every self respecting m’lem’s wetdreams!”

“M’lem?” 

“Em-el-em. Men who like men.” Wade explained. “There’s a whole spectrum out there, Spidey. You should know this.” 

“Hold on, I know about—Wait, did you call me a twink? I’m not a _twink_.” Spider-Man shook his head and took a breath as if to center himself. “Sorry. I’ve been off all day. I just meant… Well. Here.” 

A gloved hand held out a banged up but not-quite broken phone. Wade stared at it disbelievingly. 

“It’s yours, right?” Spider-Man started to sound doubtful. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume. Cheryl said you left it with her when you uh, when you went back to the first floor.” 

Wade reached out to take the phone gingerly. He slid it open, heart wobbling as the screen lit up. There were twelve new texts and seven missed calls. All from Peter. He could feel the dopey smile on his face and didn’t bother fighting it off. Instead he focused on swallowing back the bitter realization that he couldn’t bring Peter into his world. Peter was just an average guy, and Wade’s average day at the office involved fleets of attacking drones. 

He couldn’t lose someone he loved again. Not after Vanessa. 

“Wilson?” Spider-Man took a step closer, reaching out to steady him.

Wade took in a shaky breath and finally gave the hero a reassuring smile. “Thanks, Webs. You’re the real deal, you know that?” 

Spider-Man’s lenses widened a fraction, but he didn’t respond. It was all the same to Wade, though. He turned on his heel without so much as a ‘farewell,’ ignoring the familiar echo of voices in his skull—especially the one that sounded like Peter pleading for him to wait.

He couldn’t bask in that glow for much longer than he could tolerate the badges and medics. As much as he wanted to be just Wade Wilson, he wasn’t. He was Deadpool. And a dead man like Wade Wilson had no right to be both making nice with heroes _and_ flirting with an innocent civilian named Peter. He could be a hero and good person like Spidey wanted, or he could be happy. A lump formed in his throat as he stared down at Peter’s stupid smile. A smile that should never be anywhere near the disaster that followed Wade around. 

Tags be damned; Deadpool knew better than to count on a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The world is on fire. Escapism is good, and you should absolutely keep your spirits up. Consider me your aggressive party bard, here to boost your spirits with fic about superheroes who are absolutely gonna kiss. 
> 
> But also, if you're able, donate. Set up a passive monthly donation of even $1 to [Reclaim the Block](https://www.reclaimtheblock.org/home). It matters. It helps. If you're unable? Go make someone laugh who needs it! Times are tough and humour can be a saving grace for the weary heart. Comment with the stupidest jokes you've ever heard, or share vids, or whatever makes you laugh! I'll post'em up in the notes for the next chapter. 
> 
> Until next time, remember: I adamantly stand by the theory that all it would take to beat Spider-Man would be a vat of industrial lube and about four airhorns. #Deep


End file.
